The Fledgling Year
by Schmo and Sushi
Summary: Cor's mission is to explore Archenland and learn about his people. Aravis's mission is to find him a suitable bride. Their only obstacles? Each other. And, of course, the occasional rogue dragon. Cor/Aravis. Updated regularly!
1. Chapter One

_Chapter One_

Aravis Tarkheena was in the possession of a dark secret.

The people of the kingdom of Archenland generally tended to consider their future king the finest warrior in all the land. She, however, knew the truth behind the matter; she_ alone_, because while he would certainly never trip over his own two feet in front of his father's council, Prince Cor had a definite propensity to make spectacular feats of gracelessness whenever he was out of the immediate view of Very Distinguished Persons.

Of course, she was not the only one who had raised their eyebrows when, in a moment of distractedness, he once let a corner of the map he was holding dip into the flame of a nearby candle; or when he caught his toe on the edge of a carpet and knocked a laden serving table crashing to the floor; or when he slipped while climbing a muddy bank and brought half of King Lune's entourage rolling back down the slope with him. But Lune and his councilors liked to think that it was just a brief phase Cor was going through, and would certainly pass away after some time.

That considered, it had been a good ten months since Aravis had last seen Cor, and now she and her travel-dusted retinue were once again nearing the wide, green courtyard of the palace at Anvard. In a very few moments, Aravis would learn if Lune's prediction had come true or not: had Cor grown out of his clumsiness, or was he the same boy who fell up the stairs on his way to bid her farewell?

The sounds of approaching horses did not slow the calculated movements of two helmeted swordsmen that sparred on the green lawn. They made quite an interesting pair: a short and careful one and a taller, sturdy-limbed one with quick feet. (Aravis felt rather sorry for the smaller one; the bigger man seemed to be giving him quite the beating.) As for King Lune, fat and considerably more grey-bearded than Aravis remembered him being, he was settled into a cushy chair near the bubbling central fountain and watching the goings-on with animation and boyish glee, and Prince Corin (his face dirty and streaked with sweat) lounged on the ground nearby.

"Welcome back, milady Aravis," said a footman over the sounds of clashing steel, taking the reins of Aravis' horse.

"Thank you." Aravis accepted his hand and came down from the saddle, landing on the cobbled ground with a puff of yellow dust. "It _is_ good to be back in Anvard. Though, I cannot say I missed this all this dreadful racket—tell me, who is fighting?"

"It is His Majesty Prince Cor and the Lord Darin," said the man, "They have been practicing their art all morning."

"Quite," said Aravis, thinking of all the irritated courtiers inside the castle with their fingers stuffed into their ears. "Well, take her away, and be sure to brush her well."

"Aye, milady."

As the footman led her mare away, Aravis flicked a hand to her retinue—a gaggle of giggly maids—and they followed him without much of a fuss. (Aravis had to wonder why _now_, of all times, they would cease complaining; all the way to Calavar and back it had been too hot, too cold, too sunny, too dark, too boring, too busy, too _Calormene._ She had been quite ready to run them all off a cliff somewhere.) But now she was finally back in Archenland, and she would only have to see the maids on occasion.

So she went towards Corin and Lune with that happy thought in mind. "I trust I find my lords well?" she said, kneeling in the grass at Lune's right hand.

"Indeed, indeed, Lady Aravis," said Lune. "But look upon Prince Cor! Has he not improved greatly?"

Aravis was quite used to the king's preoccupied manner of addressing her. However, she was not as impressed as he was at Cor's supposed skill; the youth didn't seem to have grown a single inch since she left, and he struggled to lift his shield as the taller Lord Darin hammered upon it. "Not that I can tell," she answered.

"Not that you can tell?" Lune blithered, finally turning to face her completely. "My lady Aravis, your time in Calormen has quite cobwebbed your brain!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, though, he paused, tweaked his beard, and then let out a great 'ha!' of laughter. "Why, Lady Aravis! Here you sit, still covered in the dust of Calormen, and I quite overlook your return! Oh, come here, my dear, and give me a kiss. That's a good girl. Your journey from Calavar was safe, I hope?"

"All too much so, my lord," Aravis responded, patting his fat hand. "I began to fear dying of boredom along the way."

"Nevertheless, I am glad you brought Lord Noll with you. Times are uneasy these days…"

"Aye. He was a great comfort to my maids, and Lady Noll especially enjoyed having him accompany her."

"Good, good. Corin, my son—get off your back and greet Aravis! It has been nigh a year since you last spoke to her."

Corin gave Lune a 'but Father, I want to watch the fight!' look, but sat up the rest of the way and nodded his head towards Aravis. "How d'you do, Aravis?"

"Well. And you?"

"Well. How was Calormen?"

"Oh," Aravis sighed, "hot, dusty, and stuffy, as usual."

"That's why Archenland is better," Corin said as if that settled it, and sat back.

Aravis rolled her eyes.

Soon after, Cor found himself backed against a stone support with Lord Darin's sword at his neck. Lune gave a shout, Aravis blushed for Cor's sake (_a crown prince who can't hold his own against an aging lord? How embarrassing_), and Corin jumped to his feet. Lord Darin stepped away from Cor, letting him come slowly away from the wall, and then gave a whoop, leapt in the air, and then promptly lost his balance and went clattering to the ground.

It was then that Aravis realized it had been _Darin_ backed against the wall.

"I don't know what's happened," said the real Lord Darin mournfully as he pulled his helmet off to reveal a very red and sweaty face. "I remember a time I could have held off a youth His Majesty's age all morning."

"Ah, old friend," said Lune, rising to greet the man. "You performed excellently, as usual. You must remember that you are not as young as you used to be."

"Bah. I am still sprightly."

The men continued to discuss the match, but Aravis was now concentrating on Cor. With the help of Corin, he was scrambling to his feet and pulling off his helm, saying, "This blasted armor. Knocks me off balance every time I move."

"I would argue it is your own feet that do that," Aravis retorted, standing up and going over to them. "Most impressive."

"Aravis!" said Cor, freezing in place. "You're back!"

"Hello to you, as well."

"Well, _hello_. Now that that's out of the way, what did you think? I mean, besides the falling bit."

Aravis eyed him. It was not exactly in her nature to hand out compliments—he needed no help in getting a big head—but the fact remained that she was indeed pleasantly surprised at his new-found skill. "Well," she said slowly, "I rather thought that you were Lord Darin, and Lord Darin was you. You've grown quite a lot."

"Father said I hit my stride this winter," said Cor proudly, drawing himself up. "See, Corin? I told you."

Corin grumbled. "I haven't got it with me."

"I want it by tonight."

"Or what? You'll knock me down?"

"Or I'll fall on you."

"Have you been betting again?" Aravis said. "You know your father—"

"It's only a small one," Cor interrupted. "Five gilds. That's all. I bet him that I would be taller than you by the time you returned. And am I, Corin?"

"Aye," Corin said begrudgingly, and then added in an undertone, "it's about time."

Despite herself, Aravis felt a bit pleased that she had not been entirely forgotten while she was gone. "Well, fine, then. But don't let Lune get wind of—"

"Get wind of what, my children?"

Lune had come up behind Aravis while she was speaking, and all three of them gave a little start. "Nothing, Father," Cor and Corin said in unison.

The old king may have been jolly, but he certainly was no fool, and he eyed them all with a piercing gaze. "I should hope not, for it certainly would be a shame to have to lock you all in your chambers again."

"Aye, Father."

"Good. Now, Aravis, dear…tell me, are you much exhausted from your journey? I know it was a lengthy one."

"Not terribly, sire," she answered. "But I am in need of a decent bath and change of clothes, I think."

"She smells like horse," said Corin.

"Shut up," said Cor.

"Quite understandable," Lune told her. "I shall have the bath tended to right away. But you know what this week is, of course?"

How could she forget? It was Cor and Corin's nineteenth birthday in just a few days, and, as Cor would be taking the throne on the eve of their twentieth, it was their last chance to celebrate a birthday together as twin princes of Archenland. (Apparently, as Cor's letters had told her, there were to be dances and feasts in abundance.) But, feeling a bit impish, she answered innocently, "No, what is it?"

The looks on the boys' faces were well worth it.

"It is that of my sons' birthday," Lune answered with a wink. "There is to be a special meeting of my council tonight after sup to discuss what that will entail for these rascals, and we had hoped you would arrive in time to attend."

"It would be an honor, I am sure," Aravis said. "I will be glad to."

"Very good. Now Cor, Corin, I think you ought to bathe, too. You smell worse than horses. Like perspiring horses. Or dead perspiring horses. Dead perspiring horses that have been lying around for days."

"But Father," Corin began.

"Oh, never mind that, Corin," Cor said. "Aravis, come upstairs with me. There's something I want to show you."

"'Please,'" said Aravis.

"Please."

"All right."

Cor gave his shield, sword, and helm to a nearby footman and led her from the courtyard into the cool, bright corridors of the palace itself. He walked quickly and with a purpose, and Aravis was proud to see him confidently step over thresholds and slightly upturned carpets.

"How was Calavar?" he asked her, sounding genuinely interested.

Aravis sighed. "Oh, all right, I suppose. My father's wedding went on as planned."

"And?"

"And, he and his new wife are happy enough together. They were yet getting along when I left, and that had been two months since the union."

"How does your brother like his new stepmother?"

"He never particularly liked Darya to begin with, and Parvin has already given him his own pony and convinced our father to send him to Tashbaan for school, so he does seem to like her better."

Cor slowed his paces as they approached his chamber door. "But you are glad to be back in Anvard, aye?"

"Aye," she told him archly. "I was treated far too nicely in Calormen."

Grinning, Cor pushed his door open (it always tended to stick) and ushered her in. As much as their master had changed, Aravis had been expecting Cor's living quarters to have altered somewhat, as well; but nay, they were as cluttered as they had been when she left. Stacks of parchment littered the fine mahogany desk by the window, books sat neglected besides the bookcase, and halfway-melted candles sat on every level surface.

Nevertheless, it was familiar, and Aravis began to relax.

"It's in my bedchamber," Cor said. "Wait here a moment."

He ducked into the next room, and Aravis caught a glimpse of his bed and a floor littered with discarded clothes before he pushed the door closed behind him.

"Aye, my master," she sniffed.

"I can hear you," Cor called.

While she waited for him to return triumphant, Aravis took it upon herself to begin picking papers up off the ground and placing truant books back in their places on the shelves. However the young man managed to keep his chambers so impossibly messy was beyond her—didn't he ever get lost in the piles of clutter? His bookish habits already lent a sort of busyness to the room (every available inch of wall space was filled either by windows, bookcases, seating, or vast tapestries depicting great moments in Archenlandian history) and the extra mess probably didn't help his two left feet.

At last, Cor came back, hefting in one hand a large leather-bound volume. "I found it—the nasty bugger was hiding beneath my bed."

"What is it?" Aravis asked, curious despite herself.

He motioned for her to sit on the bench beneath the west window, and she did so after removing a stack of maps. "I had meant to give it to you for your eighteenth birthday," he said, sitting beside her and placing the heavy book in her hands, "but then you left for Calormen and I couldn't. But that wasn't entirely bad—gave me a chance to finish decently."

Aravis traced the cool leather with her fingertips. "But what is it?"

"It's a book."

"I see that. But what of?"

"That's what reading is for."

Arching an eyebrow at him, Aravis slipped her fingers under the cover and opened it to a page somewhere near the middle. "'…_of a lady who had likewise an only daughter, for the sake of her riches, had a mind to marry her, and though she was old, ugly, hook-nosed, and humpbacked, yet all this could not deter him from doing so. Her daughter was a yellow dowdy, full of envy and ill-nature; and, in short, was much of the same mould as her mother_.' Why, Cor…is this your handwriting?"

He beamed. "Aye. You told me once you enjoyed our fairy tales, so I wrote them all down for you."

Aravis flipped through the pages, admiring the thick, confident writing and colorful paintwork. The details were not nearly as fine as the books she was accustomed to reading in her father's house, of course, but the fact that it had been she who taught Cor how to read and write in the first place made the simple volume infinitely more precious to her. "Thank you, Cor," she said sincerely, looking up into his face for the first time since her arrival. "It's lovely—really."

"Corin said it was nonsense."

"You ought to know better than to listen to Corin. Remember when he told you it was fashionable to wear your hose pulled up to your chest?"

"You always insist upon reminding me of that," Cor said darkly. "I, for one, wish to forget that incident entirely."

"That I will never allow," Aravis replied, closing the book. "You walked about with your tunic tucked in and your yellow trousers heaved up to your shoulders all day, and no one said anything."

Cor leapt to his feet. "At any rate, there _is_ something I wish to ask you before the meeting with my father's council tonight."

"I won't tutor young Lady Anwyn, so stop asking."

"Did I say anything about tutoring?"

"…No."

"Then pray let me continue."

"Aye, _master._"

"Fine, then. You remember me telling you about that blasted…oh, what's it called…nestling year, or some ought?"

"The fledgling year," Aravis corrected. "Aye, you wrote me about it. Is Lune still asking that you go?"

"Aye," Cor said with a sigh. "And I suppose I must."

"You sounded rather enthusiastic about it in your letter. 'A whole year of observation and study!' I believe you called it. 'A real chance to learn about my people!'"

"Well, aye," Cor began uncomfortably.

"You haven't lost your nerve, have you?"

He ground his heel into the stone floor, stretching with some apparent discomfort. "Not exactly. Well, in a manner of speaking, no. Oh, don't give me that look! …Very well, I am a bit apprehensive now. But just a bit."

"Whatever for, Cor?" Aravis cried. "A whole year of adventure, and without your brother! What more could you ask for?"

"But you know as well as I the state of the kingdom," Cor replied mournfully. "Ever since the Narnian kings and queens left, the whole North has been in an uproar. The Telmarines are growing rapidly in the west, Narnia is disintegrating without proper rule, and if we lose that our biggest ally, we might have to fear the resurgence of the western tribes. Father says that if the situation does not improve, we shall have to assume control of Cair Paravel. The common people sense this—they are growing uncomfortable. And I am to spend a year among them?"

Cor's agitation was contagious, but Aravis got up and placed the tip of her index finger at the base of his throat. "You are going to stop bleating like a petulant sheep, first and foremost," she said. "And secondly, you have nothing to worry about—we are not Narnia, and you will be traveling under assumed names. No one need know you are Prince Cor of Anvard. Simply pick the right retinue, and you shall scarcely know it before the year is over and you return."

He sighed, and his throat fluttered against her finger. "Well, you've brought me to my next question. What if I were to ask you to be part of the retinue? What would you say?"

Aravis paused. She had spent the last two weeks in the saddle, and not even another week would pass before she would climb into it again, not to leave it for a year. "I wonder if my legs can withstand it so soon."

"Aye," Cor mused. "I hadn't thought of that. But…you will think about it, at least? I rather missed you while you were in Calavar, and besides—I need companions with varied skill, and you wield the finest mind I know of."

Aravis took her hand away from his throat. "Very well. I shall think about it."

As Cor nodded, pleased, there came a knock at his door, and a few menservants bearing buckets of steaming water entered.

"Pardon me, sire," said a footman, bowing low, "but your bath is being prepared."

"I ought to go see to my own," Aravis told Cor. "Enjoy yours."

"Be thinking about it, Aravis," Cor replied. "Really."

"Aye, aye."

Aravis curtsied, Cor bowed, and then she let herself out. Cor had indeed given her a great deal to think about, but as it is very hard to think when there is sand in every crevice of your body, she hurried to her old chambers and the awaiting hot bath, leaving the more difficult topics to consider another time.

* * *

_A/N: Hi! Welcome back to all our returning readers, and an especially big 'WELCOME'! to all our new readers!_

_Wow—a new year, a new start, a new fic—plenty of change for Schmo and Sushi! But no matter what life throws at us this 2010, we hope you enjoy "The Fledgling Year." _

_Sushi dedicates this to HaloFin17, who gave her a springboard for this fic, in the hopes that she will someday write Narnia fics, too! :)_


	2. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two_

Supper that night in the palace's high-ceilinged great hall was early and light, consisting mainly of thick broths and nutty breads. Aravis found this simple meal just what her over-satiated palate needed; every bite she had eaten in Calormen was heavy, greasy, rich, and occasionally feathery. (She had never quite gotten the hang of eating peacock correctly.)

After Lune, Cor, Corin, and the last aged lord had retired from the table, the lesser nobility began to excuse themselves and drift out of the room. As it was a balmy, cloudless spring night, stuffy buildings could not contain the Archenlanders, and Aravis knew they would be gathering together on lawns and rooftops to watch the stars appear one by one.

As much as she wanted to join them, duty called, and so Aravis took her leave of her ladies-in-waiting and turned her feet towards Lune's throne room. She had scarcely gotten five paces down the corridor, however, when a hand closed over her mouth and drew her quickly into a shadowy alcove, pressing her against a warm body. At first, her heart stopped with the sickest kind of fear, but then she recognized the irritating snicker that was brushing against her ear.

"Cor of Archenland," Aravis burst out, tearing his hand away from her mouth, "I swear on my mother's grave that I shall kill you someday! I'll—I'll push you off the battlements or…or trip you down the stairs. Then you'll learn!"

Cor burst out in laughter, sagging against the wall and going quite red. "Oh, Aravis!" he gasped. "Your face! You looked like a startled owlet!"

Aravis was highly displeased. She was the kind of person who likes being stirred up, but only if they are the one controlling the stirring—this kind of excitement was _not_ one she appreciated. To demonstrate to Cor her extreme vexation, then, she reached over and tightly gripped the soft flesh between his shoulder and neck. Immediately his knees crumpled, and he barely bit back a howl of pain.

"Don't do that to me again," she said with a sniff, and released him.

"Don't do _that_ to _me_ again," he answered crossly, massaging his shoulder as he scrambled back to his feet. "It's highly unpleasant."

"So is being grabbed from behind. You _know_ how I despise that awful practice."

"At least it doesn't cause _you_ any pain."

"Oh, aye?" Aravis retorted

"Aye!"

She clapped a hand over his mouth, just to show him.

An involuntary yelp of pain escaped Cor's lips, but he reached out and tweaked the tender flesh above Aravis' elbow until she took her hand away.

"Oh! That hurts, Cor!"

"As it ought!"

Swiftly, she caught the underside of his chin with the palm of her hand and thumped that hollow head of his against the stone wall. "There!"

"Don't touch that, Aravis!" he cried, rubbing the back of his skull. "I need it!"

"And I need my elbow! Don't touch that, either!"

Cor furrowed his brow and stuck out his jaw. Aravis recognized that look—she had seen it so often before—and it always meant something terrible was about to happen. More out of habit than anything else, then, she whirled around and began running as fast as her aching legs would carry her. Cor had always been swift, but she was also much nimbler than he, and she had never feared being caught.

But it is sometimes amazing what a difference ten months will make, and soon Aravis felt a hand close upon her skirt. She and Cor began to stumble to a halt, bumping into each other and a wall in the process, and it all ended with a step too far—"Oh, _bugger_"—and a loud crash. The noise was sobering, and, for a moment, all they could do was stare at the remains of the fine porcelain vase that now lay scattered on the stone floor.

"That was _your _fault."

For once, Cor did not argue. A moment later, a door slammed open, and the lords Dar and Rill came rushing out, hands upon the hilts of their jeweled swords as though the crash had really been the sudden invasion of an enemy army. "I say, what is the meaning of all this commotion?" Lord Rill asked. "I heard—" He stopped when he saw the shattered vase.

"Well, I—I can explain," Cor began, taking a step forward.

"As well you should, boy I regretfully call my heir."

Oh, _bother_, Lune had come out. The fat old king stood with spread legs and crossed arms, looking very displeased indeed at the misfortune that had befallen the decoration; the heat of that furious gaze made Aravis very uneasy, despite the fact that it was aimed solely at Cor. (How was he not sizzling into the floor?)

"I'm sorry, Father—"

"'Sorry'?" Lune blustered, going red. "'Sorry,' Cor? That jar—that _heirloom_—was centuries old! Tell the palace chroniclers that you broke their prize possession and see if they'll accept your 'sorry.'"

Cor's shoulders bowed. "Aye, Father."

This was simply too much—indeed, Cor was an insufferably clumsy fool, but Aravis thought that he had been punished quite enough lately for that fact. Drawing her shoulders back, then, she cleared her throat and said with much (false) remorse, "Begging your pardon, sire, but it was _I_ who broke the vase. Please do not be angry at Cor—he was only trying to protect my honor. I shall make the necessary reparations to the chroniclers, you have my word."

Obviously, this bit of information about his son's honor soothed Lune's rising ill temper, for he stroked his grey beard and grumbled, "Very well. I apologize sincerely, my son."

"Think nothing of it, Father."

"And as for you, Lady Aravis, I also extend my regrets—as unfortunate as they are, such things occur from time to time. Now, come, both of you. This little incident has rather upset me, and nothing relieves discomfort like a bit of planning."

Giving Cor and Aravis rather knowing looks, Dar and Rill followed Lune back into the throne room. Before Aravis could do the same, Cor caught her arm. "Protecting your honor, eh?" he said with a grin.

"Don't get any ideas," she said archly.

"Fine, fine. Really, though—I thank you. Father never gets quite as angry at you as he does at me or Corin."

Tossing her head, Aravis looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Perhaps it is because he knows I am much more observant than you."

"Oh, aye?" he said doubtfully.

"Aye! That vase was a gift from Ardeshir Tarkhaan last year—perhaps the ghastliest piece of pottery I have ever seen. Hardly an heirloom."

With that, Aravis hurried into the throne room, where Lune sat waiting, ten councilors seated on both sides of the throne. Cor rushed after her, his fair brow furrowed and a question forming on his lips, but Aravis shushed him and moved to stand out of the way.

"I call this meeting into order," said Lune with a particularly stern look at Cor and Aravis, "now that our most important guest has graced us with his presence."

"I apologize, my lord Father," said Cor with a good deal more confidence as he took the indicated seat facing Lune's throne. "I assure you, it won't happen again."

Lune grunted. "Well. I assume you know why you are here?" He motioned at the court record-keeper, who had begun scribbling madly.

"Aye, my liege. As my nineteenth birthday approaches, it is your duty to oversee the successful planning of my year-long venture into true Archenland."

"Very good."

Cor caught Aravis's gaze, and she slowly crossed her eyes until he had to look away for fear of laughing aloud.

Clearly quite oblivious to this little exchange, Lune settled back into his throne. "Lord Rodrin, I entreat you to read aloud the list of duties His Highness and accompanying entourage are expected to fulfill during their travels."

Lord Rodrin stood up with a piece of parchment clasped in his wrinkled hands. "Aye, my lieges."

A scrivener hurried forward and gave Cor a stack of his own parchment and a pencil, and Cor had barely grasped the items and placed them upon his knee before Lord Rodrin cleared his throat.

"'As Crown Prince of Archenland, His Highness Cor's first and foremost duty is to engage himself in the common culture of his people.'"

"Right," said Cor, writing rapidly. "Common culture."

"'In relation, His Highness should make detailed notes of every encounter throughout his year of discovery: natural, personal, cultural, and historical. These notes should be of the highest clarity, so as to afford education to later readers.

"'His Highness understands that he should shrink from no task or encounter, unless it unnecessarily threatens the well-being of his entourage or appears gratuitously dangerous.'"

"No gratuitous danger," Cor repeated dutifully.

"'His Highness agrees to send to Anvard detailed tidings on a weekly basis for review by the royal council.

"'His Highness understands that, should he return prior to the date of May 23 in the next year, his crown is forfeit until he completes the full year. Thus speaks the law.'"

"A whole year, understood," said Cor.

"'It is understood that, while His Highness exercises supreme authority over his entourage, the members have been chosen so as to offer the finest wisdom and provide a strong model for His Highness's future council.'"

"Of course," Cor said.

"'Each member of the entourage shall be outfitted appropriately by the Crown, but His Highness will be afforded only limited funds to address any needs the outfit may encounter throughout the course of the year. This shall teach His Highness the value of money and set up a firm foundation for a responsible rule, as well as provide an impetus for humble reliance upon common means of gaining assets.'"

"Limited funds," Cor said with a bird-like nod.

"'His Highness also understands that, as an ideal ruler is one with a counterpart, he is to search among the upper commonfolk and nobility in order to find himself a suitable queen.'"

"Good, goo—"

Aravis realized what Lord Rodrin had said at the same time Cor did. While the room did not necessarily reel around her, she was nonetheless startled—a _bride_? Cor? The thought was simply impossible! He was too young, too freckled, too _Cor_!

"Let Lord Rodrin finish, my son," Lune said.

Cor, who had stood up at this proclamation, slowly sat back down.

Lord Rodrin cleared his throat again. "'He must, with the assistance of a trusted advisor, carefully screen each candidate for a queen's ideal attributes: wisdom, character, gentleness, handsomeness, a careful manner, ability to bear children, and love for Archenland. The women who meet these standards are to leave their homes and join the entourage, whereupon on His Highness's return to Anvard, the royal council shall make the final choice.'"

_Oh, that just topped it all off_, Aravis thought miserably. First, Cor was being forced into marriage (and she was not any more ready for that idea than he was), and then secondly, he could not even choose for himself who the bride would be. Things were just as they had been in Calormen!

"Do you understand these terms, my son?" Lune asked.

"Aye, Father," Cor said dully.

"Good. Now, have you selected your entourage?"

"Aye."

"Then let us hear and see them."

Slowly, Cor stood and folded his arms behind his back, his shoulders going broader and chest puffing out. "Lord Darin the Strongarm."

The handsome but greying lord stood and bowed to Lune and Cor. "My lieges."

"Lord Nim the Mapmaker."

Lord Nim, a man about Lune's age with big eyes and small hands, bowed. "My lieges."

"Sir Borran the Voyagemaker."

Aravis stared at the long-bearded knight as he bowed: she had only heard rumors about this elusive man's exploits, but if they were even remotely true, he knew more about Archenland's topography than anyone else alive.

"Lord Rys the Herbalist."

Rys, a twinkling-eyed old man, winked broadly at Aravis even as he said reverentially, "My lieges."

Cor cleared his throat. "I have also selected Romith the cook and Dor the smithy to accompany us."

Lune and the remaining sixteen councilors nodded with pleased expressions—Prince Cor had done a fine job of picking an entourage, Aravis thought with no small amount of pride. All the men were fine fighters, but Nim knew his directions, Darin could best nearly any man in a swordfight, Borran knew the ways of the wilds, Rys could heal any injury, Romith would cook well and heartily, and Dor would keep the corps' weapons sharp and ready.

"Is there anyone else, my son?" Lune asked, tapping the armrests of his throne.

"Aye, my lord Father."

"Who is it?"

At this moment, Corin, who had up until this point been sitting quietly in a corner, leapt to his feet and crowed, "I, Father! I shall go! For the good of Archenland, let me go!"

"Sit down and quiet yourself, Corin," Lune said, rubbing his forehead. "You're to stay here as discussed—I can't have _both_ my heirs gallivanting about in the wide world beyond my range of discipline."

Corin collapsed back into his chair with a pout.

Lune let out a sigh and shifted in his throne. "Cor. Who is this last person?"

Cor's fingers tightened behind his back. "Lady Aravis, Father."

Aravis had wondered at first when he would announce this; now, watching the uncertain reactions of the council, she wondered what they would say. Nevertheless, she stood up and bowed low. "My lieges."

Lune's eyes twinkled, even as his council muttered around him. "I see. And what does Lady Aravis have to offer to the entourage?"

"She is honest," Cor said, and the council's murmurings were punctuated by chuckles.

"As I hope the others are," Lune laughed. "What else?"

"She is an apt rider and will easily keep pace with us."

Lune began to lose the twinkle in his eye; Aravis wondered if perhaps Cor was performing poorer on this portion of the test than he'd hoped. "I do not doubt her ladyship's able horsemanship. I am simply wondering what exactly she would bring to the collection of skills that is your retinue."

"I…I…"

The council did not look approving. Suddenly, Aravis began to doubt her political weight—it hadn't crossed her mind when Cor had first asked if she would accompany him that she might be _denied_ the privilege! Well, consider that the last time she embroidered slippers for the councilors, those turncoats!

"I am inclined to bid her stay," said Lune, heeding the dissatisfaction of his council.

Cor dropped his hands from behind his back, the tips of his ears turning pink. "I cannot have that, Father! I…I trust Lady Aravis above anyone else. If she is not at my right hand, then—then I refuse to go. So…there."

The council erupted in muttering again, but Lune raised his hand. "Enough, my friends. That is all I wished to hear from my son. Step forward, Lady Aravis, and we shall decide jointly what your duties are to be."

Cor blinked rather stupidly, but then grinned with relief. Aravis let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Aye, my liege," she said a bit giddily, leaving her place by the wall to stand abreast with Cor.

The lords and Lune looked down at her thoughtfully. "I have an idea," Lord Rill said at last.

"Then speak it, trusted advisor."

"Her ladyship is well-versed in the art of writing, is she not?"

"I am," Aravis answered.

"Then I see no reason why she cannot assist His Highness with record-keeping."

"I would like nothing better," said Cor. "As is well known, I lack greatly in that area."

Lune nodded with pleasure. "Good. Very good. And I have a proposition, as well. Lady Aravis, as the only woman in the entourage—oh, that reminds me. Would you prefer to bring your ladies-in-waiting?"

"No!" she cried. When the council gave her startled looks, though, she tried to amend her answer, but then she realized there was really no way to say _"If those hens come along, I will sell them all to the slavers"_ kindly, so she folded her hands and calmly amended, "No, thank you."

"Good—that shall relieve you for better duty. Now, then. I propose that you not only assist my royal son in record-keeping, but in a service much more important to the well-being of Archenland…do you feel yourself up to the task?"

Aravis drew herself up, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, the old man's words warming her heart. Of course she was up to the task! "Aye, my liege. For Archenland."

Lune folded his hands across his broad stomach. "Very good. Then I ask that you employ your good sense and what you know of ruling to assist my son as he tests each candidate. You understand what it takes to run a castle, so the women you approve must be capable of doing that work and much more."

She knew she needed to agree, happily and immediately, but the words "Aye, my liege" simply would not come. If she had known her duty would be to choose the minx that would be her _replacement_, she never would have agreed to it! But of course, she was much too involved now, and everyone knows that changing your mind in front of a king is the worst sort of indiscretion. So she swallowed hard, smiled painfully, and said, "Of course, sire."

The council nodded. "Excellent," Lune said merrily. "Excellent! Well, gentlemen, I believe that concludes this little congregation. Thank you for your time."

Bowing and nodding and talking amongst themselves, the council began to filter from the chamber; under the cover of their noise, Cor turned to Aravis and whispered, "Father told me I would have to start thinking about a queen—but I never thought it would be so soon. What am I to do?"

Aravis could only shake her head.

He sighed. "My father calls you. See you in the morning then?"

"Aye. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Cor hesitated a moment, chewed rather childishly on his lower lip, then nodded, turned, and followed the council from the chamber, joining up with Corin who then proceeded to elbow him in the ribs.

"Come, come, child," said Lune, beckoning to Aravis as she paused to watch the exchange.

Aravis lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped up onto the dais where Lune's throne sat. "You wanted to speak with me, sire?"

"Aye, aye," he said gruffly, taking one of her hands in his fat, bejeweled ones. "Aravis, dear, you know I think of you as a daughter."

"Oh, I do not doubt your kindness, my liege," Aravis said, touched despite herself.

"Mm, mm. Then you will not take offense at what I am about to ask, quite bluntly. Are you…_quite_ sure you wish to accompany my son?"

Aravis sat down by Lune's feet. "I am," she said sincerely. "It shall be a grand adventure."

Lune drummed his fingers on his knees. "And yet you seemed…rather displeased when I mentioned his marrying."

Heat leapt to Aravis' face, and she opened her mouth to deny any forthcoming uncomfortable questioning, but Lune took her hand again, patting it awkwardly. "Have no fear, young one. I am quite confident you shall find a husband among my courtiers very quickly, and you will soon be much too busy with your own household to take care of mine. That is why I wish my sons to marry, so that when _you_ do, you shall not feel obliged to us."

This was not quite what Aravis had expected. Swallowing her previous rationalizations, she allowed herself to smile at Lune. "You are kind and thoughtful, my liege."

"Bah." Lune sat back in his throne, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his red face. "Of course, if you decide not to marry right away, do not think for a moment that we shall lure you outside Anvard and then lock the gates. Your duties perhaps may change, but your importance to the court will not."

Well, this, at least, was good news. "You are too kind," Aravis said sincerely.

Lune grunted, turning a bit pink in the ears (_just like Cor_). "Stop flattering me," he said with a hint of bashfulness. "All I wished you to know was that your place here is safe. Now begone, ere I decide to change my mind."

"Aye, my liege," Aravis said with a curtsy, hiding her smile. "I bid you goodnight."

"Mm. And to you, child. Rest well."

"I shall."


	3. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three_

_"Psst. Aravis."_

Aravis barely heard the whisper above the sound of the crowds in the Great Hall and the rustling of her own gown, but she paused to listen, holding perfectly still. "Who is it?" she murmured.

"It's Cor."

She turned around to see him peering at her, dressed very nicely in a fine blue tunic and yellow hose, a blazing torch in one hand. "Cor! What are you doing out here—you should be in the Great Hall, and you know it."

Cor looked pained. "But I don't want to be."

Aravis scoffed indignantly. "It's your own birthday celebration, and you don't want to be there?"

"You know how I hate crowds—Archenlanders take parties far too seriously." He threw back his head as if he'd suddenly realized something. "But I am at no more fault that you, Lady Brings-Books-To-Formal-Affairs!"

She had forgotten about the book clasped in her hands, and she reddened, hiding it behind her back. "Never you mind that—it's not _my_ birthday party I'm late to."

"So you admit you're late."

"No later than you."

Cor rolled his eyes. "Come on, then—it'll do no good to stand here in the corridors where we'll certainly be found. If we plan to play truants, we had better do it out of the way."

As tempting as the offer was—oh! to avoid four hours of polite conversing and brainless smiling!—Aravis had to hesitate. "We'll have to make an appearance sooner or later."

"I'd prefer later." He held out a hand to her and motioned with his head. "Come on—I know just the place to start."

"You'll be the death of me someday, I'm certain of it," Aravis said, putting her hand in his despite it all.

"And yet you follow willingly." Cor raised his eyebrows with polite curiosity. "Interesting."

Aravis's cheeks heated up yet again, but she tossed her head at him and said, "If you continue to stand there any longer, I shall be forced to join the party."

"Fine, fine. Come along, and watch your step. It gets a bit chancy here."

She was about to ask where, but Cor squeezed her hand and pulled her down a narrow, dark corridor as he hoisted the torch above his head. "The servants' quarters?" she said dubiously, pulling her elbows in closer to her body.

"Not quite—this is something you haven't seen before."

"Is that even possible?" she mused.

Cor stopped and gave her an arch look. "You may be lady of Anvard, Aravis, but I am its prince. I'd like to think I know a bit more about it than you."

Aravis sniffed.

"If you're done doubting me, then…"

"Very well—I'll be silent."

Though he clearly did not believe her, Cor gave her the torch, then hooked his fingers around a small ring in the wall, pulled, and out from the wall came a heavy wooden door. "See?" he said proudly as a wall of damp, musty air hit them.

"What _is_ it?" Aravis asked, holding the torch in the doorway.

Cor took it from her. "Patience, my pet. Now, do be careful here—the steps are slippery, and the last thing we need is for you to give away our truanting by falling and breaking your head."

"If it's tripping you're afraid of, you'd best hold on to _my_ hand," Aravis told him.

"I think I can walk down a flight of stairs, thank thee kindly."

"We'll see about that. But do be careful where you step—we are both dressed nicely, and I think it would be rather a giveaway if we returned to the Great Hall covered in dust and mud."

"Excellent point," said Cor, going forth into the darkness, pulling her along after him. "In that case…don't touch the walls."

The advice came a bit too late, and Aravis's hand came away from the cold stones covered in something wet and slimy. Shuddering, she wiped it off on a handkerchief from her pocket. "Where are we going?"

"Down into the very bowels of Anvard."

Well, _that_ much was obvious from the stale air. "Yes, but _where_?"

"By the lion, Aravis, do you ever stop asking questions?"

"If I don't ask questions, they don't get answered!"

He heaved a great, exaggerated sigh. "We're going down into the catacombs. The tombs of the old Archenlandian kings."

Aravis's curiosity was piqued, despite all her intentions to be as uninterested as possible. "I've never known they were buried here."

"Well, yes you do—the main entrance is down in the cellars. Father says there used to be corridors leading from the catacombs out to the hillside, but they were all collapsed either naturally or purposefully. Safety, you see. Ah, here we are."

The two of them came to the bottom of the staircase, and the dim light of Cor's torch illuminated a long, dark stone passageway, pitted intermittently with great, gaping holes. "This is where all lesser royals are buried," Cor said, taking a dead torch from the wall and lighting it with his own.

"Where will you be laid someday?" Aravis asked.

He gave her the other torch. "In here. Watch yourself."

As they stepped over a threshold into a chamber, Aravis caught a glimpse of what was in the dark holes-in-the-wall: moldering bones, covered with nothing but a few scraps of cloth and perhaps a shield.

_"This_ is where I am to be buried," Cor announced, indicating a particularly large hole in the chamber wall.

Aravis peered into it. "It's rather…unremarkable."

"I know. But this is where my father is to be buried, and there's a spot next to mine for my queen (whomever she will be). And look—here is the body of my grandfather, King Sol, and my grandmother, Queen Firta."

All that Aravis could see of these Cor's ancestors was covered in rich purple mantles. "How far back in your line does this room go?"

"All the way from my great-great-great-grandfather's great-grandfather," Cor said, "to my mother."

"Your mother?" Aravis asked.

He nodded. "Queen Agara."

His tone was cool and calm, and it made Aravis's stomach clench with pity. Though her own mother had died early, she had had the privilege of being with her until the very end—Cor, on the other hand, had no memory of his mother whatsoever. Clasping her book to her chest, she approached the shrouded figure he had indicated and bowed slightly to the great lady whose place she had taken. "How long ago—"

"Fifteen years," Cor said. "Corin was four. Say, what book did you bring?"

Aravis did not mind changing the subject either. "The one you gave me."

"You like it, then?"

"Oh, of course I do!—but it shall be ages before I can finish them all."

"It took me ages to copy them all down," he agreed with a laugh.

"Well, then, you know all the endings! Don't breathe a word of them to me."

Cor laughed again, and the sound was pleasant in that oppressive setting. "You expected me to absorb all the information that passed between my eyes and my pen? I can scarce even remember the titles of the stories I wrote down."

"What a bad Archenlander you are, indeed."

"I suppose you'll have to read them to me."

The way he said the phrase made Aravis realize that he'd been planning it that way the whole time. "You are quite the demanding prince, you know," she said, handing him her torch and ignoring his grin. "Just one story, and then we must go back up to join the realm of the living."

"Agreed."

Aravis looked about the dusty room for a suitable place to sit. Next to the entrance to the chamber was a low table, presumably for storing candles during the traditional mourning period, and she settled down onto that, her right shoulder nestled in the corner of two damp stone walls. "What would you like to hear?" she asked Cor as he sat down next to her.

"Anything," said Cor eagerly.

Aravis closed her eyes, slipped her finger between the smooth pages of the book, and opened it up. "'The Tale of the Rose-Tree'," she read.

"_'There was once upon a time a good man who had two children: a girl by a first wife, and a boy by the second. The girl was as white as milk, and her lips were like cherries. Her hair was like golden silk, and it hung to the ground. Her brother loved her dearly, but her wicked stepmother hated her. "Child," said the stepmother one day, "go to the grocer's shop and buy me a pound of candles." She gave her the money; and the little girl went, bought the candles, and started on her return. There was a stile to cross. She put down the candles whilst she got over the stile. Up came a dog and ran off with the candles._

_"'She went back to the grocer's, and she got a second bunch. She came to the stile, set down the candles, and proceeded to climb over. Up came the dog and ran off with the candles._

_"'She went again to the grocer's, and she got a third bunch; and just the same happened. Then she came to her stepmother crying, for she had spent all the money and had lost three bunches of candles._

_"'The stepmother was angry, but she pretended not to mind the loss. She said to the child: "Come, lay your head on my lap that I may comb your hair." So the little one laid her head in the woman's lap, who proceeded to comb the yellow silken hair. And when she combed the hair fell over her knees, and rolled right down to the ground._

_"'Then the stepmother hated her more for the beauty of her hair; so she said to her, "I cannot part your hair on my knee, fetch a billet of wood." So she fetched it. Then said the stepmother, "I cannot part your hair with a comb, fetch me an axe." So she fetched it._

_"'"Now," said the wicked woman, "lay your head down on the billet whilst I part your hair."_

_"'Well! She laid down her little golden head without fear; and whist! down came the axe, and it was off. So the mother wiped the axe and laughed.'"_

"By the lion!" Cor said.

Aravis shook her head and continued. _"'Then she took the heart and liver of the little girl, and she stewed them and brought them into the house for supper. The husband tasted them and shook his head. He said they tasted very strangely.'"_

Cor choked. "I should think so! Oh, what a horrible story!"

"If you want me to continue it," Aravis said, "hush your mouth."

He fell silent.

_"'She gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat. She tried to force him, but he refused, and ran out into the garden, and took up his little sister, and put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose-tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept, till his tears ran down on the box._

_"'One day the rose-tree flowered. It was spring, and there among the flowers was a white bird; and it sang, and sang, and sang like an angel out of heaven. Away it flew, and it went to a cobbler's shop, and perched itself on a tree hard by; and thus it sang,_

_"'"My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead."_

_"'"Sing again that beautiful song," asked the shoemaker. _

_"'"If you will first give me those little red shoes you are making." _

_"'The cobbler gave the shoes, and the bird sang the song; then flew to a tree in front of a watchmaker's, and sang:_

_"'"My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead."_

_ "'"Oh, the beautiful song! Sing it again, sweet bird," asked the watchmaker. _

_"'"If you will give me first that gold watch and chain in your hand." _

_"'The jeweler gave the watch and chain. The bird took it in one foot, the shoes in the other, and, after having repeated the song, flew away to where three millers were picking a millstone. The bird perched on a tree and sang:_

_"'"My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead."_

_"'Then one of the men put down his tool and looked up from his work._

_"'"Stock!"_

_"'Then the second miller's man laid aside his tool and looked up._

_"'"Stone!"_

_"'Then the third miller's man laid down his tool and looked up,_

_"'"Dead!"_

_"'Then all three cried out with one voice: "Oh, what a beautiful song! Sing it, sweet bird, again." _

_"'"If you will put the millstone round my neck," said the bird. _

_"'The men did what the bird wanted and away to the tree it flew with the millstone round its neck, the red shoes in one foot, and the gold watch and chain in the other. It sang the song and then flew home. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house, and the stepmother said: "It thunders." Then the little boy ran out to see the thunder, and down dropped the red shoes at his feet. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house once more, and the stepmother said again: "It thunders." Then the father ran out and down fell the chain about his neck._

_"'In ran father and son, laughing and saying, "See, what fine things the thunder has brought us!" Then the bird rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house a third time; and the stepmother said: "It thunders again, perhaps the thunder has brought something for me," and she ran out; but the moment she stepped outside the door, down fell the millstone on her head; and so she died.'"_

After a moment of rather stunned silence, Aravis shut the book soundly. "What a frightful tale."

"Quite," said Cor with a shiver. "I shall never read that one to my children someday, that is for certain."

"I agree wholeheartedly—what if their mother should die, and you take a new queen? They shall get ideas about dropping rocks on her head."

Cor laughed, and then stifled the sound. "What a terrible thing to say in a tomb!"

Aravis had to muffle her own giggle. "But it would be an interesting addition, don't you think? 'Here lies Queen Iscula, wife of King Cor, dead of a rock.'"

"'Iscula'? I promise you, I shall never marry an 'Iscula'."

"I'll wager that you do."

"Oh, really? Fine, then—ten gilds if I marry an 'Iscula'."

"Ten gilds." Aravis reached over, and they clasped forearms like two old lords.

After another moment of pleasant silence, Cor shifted on the cold stone seat and rested his shoulder against hers. "I'm glad you agreed to come along with us," he said blithely.

"Oh?"

"Well, sure—I _did_ miss you while you were away."

His words left a warm glow in the pit of Aravis's stomach, and she very briefly put her hand over his. "I'm glad you don't detest me so much."

Cor sighed, stretching his long legs out. "I suppose we ought to go back up to the 'realm of the living,' as you so aptly put it."

Neither of them moved.

Slyly, Aravis slipped her finger between the pages of the book and pulled it open. "'The Well of the World's End.' Sounds interesting…"

"One more story couldn't hurt," Cor said.

Aravis smiled.


	4. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four_

The next morning dawned far too bright and early for Aravis's liking. By the time she was dressed and had finished eating a light breakfast, the sun was just cresting the hills to the east; no decent human should have been awake at that hour, and _especially_ not young ladies who had been kept up very late by a king who was not altogether pleased that they had allowed his eldest son to miss half of a Very Important Celebration.

It was so early, in fact, that the castle of Anvard was quite silent when Aravis, laden down with satchels that held necessities like parchment and ink and fresh gowns, stepped out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind her so as not to wake her ladies-in-waiting. (That was the last thing she wanted to do.) From behind every closed door she passed came distant snoring as the Archenlanders slept off the effects of mead and good friends.

_Yes, sleep,_ she thought wistfully, thinking of their warm beds. It would be some time before she slept in one again, that much was certain! Starting tonight, the soil would be her bed, and the endless sky her blankets.

Vaguely, she wondered if the Archenlandian constellations would change in correlation with the distance they traveled from Anvard.

The only other wakened being she encountered in the darkened corridors was an elderly footman, who kindly helped her bring her things down to the main courtyard, which was still shrouded in shadows as the sun had not yet risen high enough yet.

"I wish ye good fortune, my lady Aravis," said the man in a quivering voice as he set her things down on the flagstones. "All of Anvard's hopes ride with you."

"Thank you, my good man," she said, touched by his sincerity.

He gave her a rheumatic bow and excused himself.

"Rather early, aren't we?" came a voice.

Aravis leapt into the air like a scalded cat and spun around. _"Cor!_ Ohh—_why_ must you always present yourself in frightful ways!"

"Keep your voice down, Aravis—you'll wake the entire castle with your howling—"

"I will _not_ keep my voice down," she shot back angrily. "And don't tell me what to do."

"All I did was murmur!"

"Without making your presence known."

"I _did_ make my presence known—by murmuring!"

Aravis balled her fists and lifted her chin. "I refuse to speak to you any longer, Cor of Archenland."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. It shall be a very dull year, though, I should think…"

Aravis did not answer, and chose instead to adjust her cloak at her throat with painstaking care.

"Well, I shall continue to speak to you, even if you don't ever reply." Sighing, he put his hands on his hips and looked up at the receding stars. "I'm rather ready to set out…I could scarcely sleep last night for all the plans that were racing through my head. If—why, Erec!"

Cor sounded so surprised that Aravis was impelled to abandon her inspection of the cloak's wool and look up. A small boy, hardly waist-height on Cor, was approaching them, rubbing his little eyes and blinking firmly.

"Erec, my boy, you shouldn't be up so early," Cor admonished.

"But Your Majesty," the child responded, looking up at Cor with big brown eyes, "you're leaving today and I'm to come along."

Giving Aravis a look, Cor knelt down so he was eye-level with the boy. "Listen here, my lad—I'm going to be gone for a very long time. You're to go home with your mother and father soon! What do you say to that, eh?"

Erec's eyes got a little shiny. "Am I not good enough, Your Majesty? I promise, I'll grow more!"

"No! No, of course not. Dry up, lad. You're the best squire anyone could ask for—and I insist on having you back upon my return."

The boy was clearly comforted by this, and he straightened his shoulders. "Aye, Your Majesty."

Cor tousled his tawny hair and stood up. "There's a good boy. Now bow—there we are. This is Lady Aravis Tarkheena. Lady Aravis, this is my page, Erec of Roscommon."

The boy bowed very low, and Aravis humored him with a curtsy. "How do you do, Master Roscommon?"

"Very well, milady," he murmured.

"Go on, tell her about yourself."

Erec scuffed the toe of his boot along the cobblestones. "I'm eight summers, milady. My father and mother are lord and lady—well, really they're my aunt and her husband—of Roscommon in the east."

"Your mother and father are your aunt and uncle?" Aravis asked, trying to look very interested.

It worked. Erec blushed a little and rocked on his toes. "Aye, Lady Aravis. My real mum and papa—I mean, my mother and father—are both dead. My father's sister and her husband adopted me, and I am their heir."

"They do love him like their own son," Cor murmured to Aravis.

She nodded pleasantly. "I see. Well, dear one, I bid you safe travels home to Roscommon."

Erec bowed again, looking very sweet as he did so. "Thank you, Lady Aravis. Good luck."

Cor smiled briefly at Aravis before turning his attention back to Erec. "That's a good lad. Now, get ye back to bed, or your parents will find you very disagreeable. I expect to see you a year from today."

"Aye, Your Majesty," Erec said with a grin and another bow. "Good luck."

"Thank you. Run along."

Erec did so, and was nearly trampled by a horse being led out of the stables in the process.

"What a sweet child," said Aravis as he disappeared inside the castle. "You never told me you got a page."

Cor sighed and smiled. "I did—Father owes his parents a good deal; someday, I shall tell you the whole story."

Aravis wanted the "whole story" right that instant, but, alas, the rest of their party was showing up, all clad in the same drab traveling clothes as she and Cor were. Darin, Rys, Nim, Borran, Romith, and Dor came bearing their own unique luggage (several swords of varying lengths for Darin, for instance, and three heavy iron stewpots for Romith the cook). Grooms brought waiting horses to be saddled up and laden with the baggage.

"A fine day for setting off, indeed!" came Lune's booming voice. "Couldn't have asked for a better morning. Ah, my son and Lady Aravis. Wake up! You look so very pale and wan."

"It's early, Your Majesty," Aravis said.

"Not _that_ early!" He clapped them both on the shoulders, knocking them together. "Oh, how I wish I could be riding out with you."

"I'll write you every week, Father," said Cor earnestly, clasping Lune's arm. "I promise."

Lune beamed, his cheeks rosy above his grey beard. "That's my lad. I look forward to it with all my heart. Now—have you a plan?"

"Aye. We shall head directly northeast, make our way to the coast, then circle southwest until we come back to Anvard."

"Good, good. And you remember your duties?"

"Learn, grow, find a wife."

"Excellent." Lune clasped Cor's shoulder again, clearly not willing to let him go just yet. "Now, I do trust your judgment, and that of Lady Aravis, but when you consider wifely candidates…_do_ try to pick a girl of noble birth. Even a minor baroness or daughter of a gentleman! It shall make everything so much easier if you do."

"I shall try, Father."

Lune nodded, then turned to Aravis. "I trust you will help him make the best decision, dear Aravis?"

"Even if I have to beat it into his head, Your Majesty."

Chuckling merrily, Lune kissed her hand. "That's a good girl. Now come here, Cor, son of my heart, and embrace this creaky-boned and rheumatic-jointed father of yours. There."

The two men embraced brusquely but fondly, and Aravis had to smile a bit at how tightly they clung to each other before letting go and gruffly clapping each other's shoulders. "We will keep him safe, my liege," she said to Lune, seeking to soothe what pain he would never confess to having.

Lune cleared his throat and blinked several times. "Excellent, excellent…now, boy, you listen to me. If Aravis here thinks something is a bad idea, _don't do it_. We can't have you getting killed. Because if you do manage it somehow—_Corin_ must become king after me."

They all shuddered at the thought.

"Your Majesties, we are ready when you are," Lord Darin called with a low bow.

"Ah—mustn't keep your entourage waiting," Lune said, clapping his hands. "Go! Go, my son, and learn all you can _while_ you can."

"I shall do my best, Father."

"I know you will, my fledgling son."

Cor and Lune clasped arms one last time, and then Cor straightened. "Right, then. Let us waste no more time!"

The lords let out whoops of delight and swung up on their horses. Even Aravis, who was looking forward to the journey with a mixture of anticipation and dread (365 days in the saddle? Oh, her bottom hurt just thinking about it), could not help but get a bit excited by their attitudes as she scrambled up to sit atop her sturdy horse: perhaps the voyage would be rather fun!

Cor winked at her as he gathered his reins. "Art thou ready, fair maiden?"

"More than, good sir prince," she answered airily. "Lead the way."

And so the whole band put spurs to their horses, took one last look at the familiar walls of Anvard, and then turned their faces towards the wild north.


	5. Chapter Five

_Chapter Five_

It did not take very long for Aravis to realize the true character of the journey she had embarked upon. The way the lords and knights in the party went on about it, she had let herself begin to imagine daring adventures, fearless rescues, and virtuous conquests that bards would sing of for ages to come!—understandably, then, she was rather disappointed to find that the majority of their travels would involve only unpleasant weather and aching bottoms.

As if rain and mud and sore bums weren't enough, Lord Nim and Sir Borran had said that they shouldn't expect to see unfamiliar territory for at least two weeks; this in itself was not a terrible thing, but if one has ridden out almost weekly into the same country for several years, riding through it again is hardly interesting. The party took to playing rather silly games to pass the daytime hours (like Romith's invention _Spot The Hemlock_, in which the first person to point out a hemlock tree they passed would earn the prize of riding in front of the others for half an hour).

It was not until a week had passed that the hills and horizon began to look alien. There were more rocks and trees than before, and the ground they slept on grew harder each night; Aravis found herself looking forward to going to bed each night, for the stars were clearer and the night sky blacker.

As it was, she could scarcely keep her eyes off of it as she and the others set about pitching camp for the night. In the west, streaks of orange and red and purple heralded the setting sun, but in the east—_oh_, the east! Inky blue fading into black was advancing westward, and glimmers of starlight were beginning to appear low above the trees.

"Kindly keep your eyes on the world you belong to, Lady Aravis," said Lord Nim with a strained smile as she stepped on his toes for the umpteenth time.

"Sorry," she murmured, and forced her eyes back to the world and task at hand: gathering enough firewood from the thickets and copses clogging the forest around them to last the night.

"Well, I think that's enough," Cor commented, watching her movements from the other side of the growing campfire as he paused in his journaling.

"Just one more armload." She dumped the sticks and dead leaves into the pile she'd accumulated. "You remember what happened last night, after all."

"Mm," said Cor. "I wonder if Rys would go out for more in the middle of the night again."

"I would like to avoid it if possible, sire," Rys called from where he was unsaddling his horse.

Aravis inclined her head and went back into the underbrush, pushing through thorny bushes and ducking branches. _Curse these skirts,_ she thought darkly, hearing them rip with each step.

She was just straightening with a handful of sticks when there came a distinct rustle just ahead of her. "Romith?" she ventured hesitantly, wondering if the cook had come to get his own kindling.

There was no answer, except the unmistakable sound of breathing.

Aravis tightened her arms around her load of firewood and walked as calmly as she could back into the orange circle of firelight; none of the men spared her much more than a glance, too busy with pitching tents to notice her. If they weren't worried, why should she be? Yes, of course—nothing to worry about.

Nevertheless, she bent down to speak into Cor's ear. "I'm sorry to bother you, Cor, but…"

"Hm? What is it?"

"I believe there is something alive in the woods. Perhaps we ought to take precautions?"

Cor raised his eyebrows at her, but swiftly shut his journal and motioned to Darin and Borran, asking, "Are you sure?" as he stood up.

"Positive."

He and Darin drew their swords and Rys nocked an arrow into his bow, and the others froze midway through whatever they were doing. As they all watched the treeline with more than a bit of apprehension, there was another rustling sound.

"Don't be afraid, Aravis," Cor said to her out of the corner of his mouth. "You won't be hurt."

Despite herself, Aravis was rather affronted: she _wasn't_ afraid, despite whatever it was that was out there. In fact, this was the first real exposure to danger she'd had in months, and it was…rather exciting, for lack of a better word. Here she was, standing breathlessly alongside mighty warriors, ready for whatever menace came from the woods—it was just like old times!

The branches swayed alarmingly, snapping her attention back to the present, and they all jumped. Rys's finger tightened on the string of his bow.

All at once, out from the brambles burst a tall figure—Cor leapt backwards, crushing Aravis's foot in the process, and Rys let loose a single arrow, which pierced the attacker right in the juncture of the shoulder and the neck. The figure let out a thunderous roar.

_Where_ had Aravis heard that yell before? It was puzzlingly familiar…

On her right, Cor suddenly turned very white and dropped his sword to the ground. "_Corin_!"

Aravis realized the truth at the same time Cor did. Together, they rushed towards their fallen friend and knelt beside him, their hearts pounding and hands shaking—it was a very strange thing indeed to look upon Corin: for all they had known, he was home in Anvard, but now he was here in unfamiliar territory, his face white and tunic sodden with blood.

"Corin!" Cor said loudly above his brother's cries of pain. "Corin! Listen to me—it's Cor—lie st—that's it, brother, lie still."

"I've been shot, Cor," Corin hissed, gripping his shoulder.

"I have eyes in my head, you goose. Lord Rys! We need your—oh, _bother_—"

Aravis looked over. Rys, apparently quite overcome by the realization that he'd shot a prince of Archenland, had fainted dead away and was being tended to by Borran and Dor. _Oh, bother, indeed._

But Corin was commanding her attention again. With no small amount of unease, Aravis took his hand away from the wound and pinned it to the ground. "Hush, you noisy lout. You're hardly hurt at all. Stop whining."

Corin and Cor blinked at her.

She took a deep breath and rolled her eyes with as much exasperation as she could manage. "Go make yourself useful, Cor, and get your brother a blanket. Then see if Rys's herbs haven't fainted with him."

"I'm not too hurt, then?" Corin asked her as Cor scrambled to his feet.

"Hardly a scratch."

He let out a forced laugh. "I must have given you quite the scare…Bursting out of the woods like that."

"Hardly," Aravis retorted. "We assumed you were a bear, and we were going to have you for supper. Now we are all very much put out that we are not to have bear meat tonight, so hush your mouth unless you want me to send you back to Anvard right this moment."

Cor was back in a moment with a wool blanket, one of Rys's saddlebags, and Lord Darin and Lord Nim. "Why, hullo," said Corin weakly at the sight of them.

"Hush, Corin," Cor and Aravis said in unison.

Nim spread the blanket over Corin's legs and stomach, taking care not to jar the embedded arrow. "Your Majesty should not be here," he said reproachfully.

"Says my father," Corin grumbled.

Aravis put her hand over his mouth. "You _must_ be quiet, Corin."

He glared at her.

"Lord Rys is still quite unresponsive, Your Majesty," Darin whispered to Cor. "What are we to do?"

Cor looked at Aravis, his lips pale. "I…er…"

"We'll have to do without Lord Rys, _obviously_," Aravis said firmly. "Someone, go fetch the hot water from the fire."

Corin tried to say something, but Aravis's hand muffled it nicely.

Cor looked at his brother's gory shoulder and looked very grave. "What are you going to do?" he asked her.

Aravis tossed her hair. "Clearly, we must remove the arrow. He can't go around with it sticking out of his shoulder like some sort of cloak-hanger."

"Well…are you up to it?" Cor whispered.

She nodded. Indeed, how hard could it be? A simple tug, some cleaning of the wound, a bandage, and Corin would be good as new.

Darin came back with the kettle of hot water and a rag, and Cor immediately set about tearing the blood-soaked tunic away from the area of the injury, ignoring Corin's muffled groans of protest.

"Hold his arms, please," Aravis said to Darin and Nim. They did so, pinning him firmly to the ground.

Carefully, she dabbed the blood away from the site of the arrow. It was a good deal deeper in than she had thought, she noticed with a twist of her stomach.

Cor looked at her.

_I will certainly_ never _swear off in front of him,_ she thought fiercely. _I'd never hear the end of it!_ "This will sting a bit," she said aloud to Corin, placing a firm hand against his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Just then, there came a groan, and Sir Borran called, "Lord Rys has come to."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Aravis cried, prickles of genuine relief springing up all over her body. "Bring him over here—the one time we need him and he up and swoons. Brilliant."

Borran helped Rys to the site of the makeshift infirmary, and together they knelt by Corin's head. "Oh," said Rys faintly. "I see what has happened. Shouldn't be a problem…"

"Are you well enough?" Cor asked.

"Oh, aye, aye, sire," said Rys. He swayed once, but then reached down and pulled the arrow from Corin's shoulder with a firm and practiced hand. It came free with a rather stomach-twisting crunch, and Corin writhed in pain, but there it was, whole and bloody.

"It's all in the wrist," Rys said lightly, the color coming back to his cheeks as he packed herbs into the wound. "His Majesty will be right as rain in a fortnight, I shouldn't wonder."

Aravis tried to look pleased, but she thought about how she had been planning on twisting the arrow to and fro in Cor's shoulder until it worked itself free, and it made her begin to feel a little sick. What if Rys hadn't woken up on time?

As Cor was shaking Rys's hand, Aravis stood and brought the kettle back to the fire to warm up for supper. Lord Nim was standing there, and he bowed to her as she came near. "You were valiant tonight, Lady Aravis."

"Oh. Well, thank you, Lord Nim."

"Might I make a suggestion?"

She couldn't help but feel a bit of suspicion stir in the pit of her stomach. "You may…"

His mouth narrowed. "Let His Majesty do the decision-making henceforward. With all due respect, lady, it is _his_ fledgling year, not yours."

With that, he bowed once more and went over to where Borran and Romith were helping Corin sit up. Aravis frowned, a strange combination of shame and anger rolling in her already discontented stomach. Lord Nim had quite the nerve! How dare he tell her what she could and could not do! Oh, the very _sight_ of his beady little eyes and wrinkled forehead made her want to kick something.

Thankfully, Cor came over to her before she really lost her temper. "You were brilliant there, Aravis," he said, nudging her arm with his as he replaced his dusty sword in its sheath.

She grunted and hugged herself.

"I was really at a loss…I'm glad you stepped in."

His words soothed her ruffled feathers, and she straightened a little. "Well, thank you, Cor."

He smiled.

There! _If Cor is grateful for my intervention, what right does Nim have to contradict him?_ she thought gleefully. Smiling now, she said, "Corin is feeling better?"

"A bit," he replied. "He's going right to sleep. Did you know he _walked_ all the way from Anvard?"

"Walked?" Aravis repeated. "But…that's so far!"

Cor rolled his eyes, and they glinted in the firelight. "I know. Too far to send him back now."

"But we don't have enough food…or a horse for him."

"I _know_."

"He is a fool," Aravis muttered with a sigh. "And he is wounded, so we are obliged to care for him."

"Aravis—"

"And oh, your father must be out of his _mind_ with worry!"

Cor threw back his head. "If you are only going to state what is already obvious, Aravis, then please, close your mouth!"

She chose to let his foolish words ring in the air rather than respond right away—this was so uncharacteristic of her that Cor looked over, a bit of trepidation in his eyes. _Good_. "I hope you are eaten by an ogre," she said.

Cor looked very superior. "There aren't any ogres in this part of Archenland."

_Damn._ "It was rhetorical," she said through gritted teeth. "Or have you not learned the finer points of language?"

"I simply did not learn the finer points of insulting people," he shot back. "But I needn't worry—I'm face-to-face with a master of the art!"

Aravis stomped her foot, the impact radiating up from her leg into her shoulders and clenched jaw. "I wouldn't need to insult you if you weren't an insufferable oaf—"

"Insufferable oaf? _Me?_ What is this rubbish spewing from the mouth of the pot itself?"

"You dare insult a lady? I see Arsheesh's fishwifery has rubbed off on you."

"Only a Calormene would be so bold as to disparage the king's son of Archenland—"

"You forget yourself, Cor," Aravis spat, no longer trying to disguise her anger. "You are no prince—you are a foundling, an orphan with no princely merit in you but an adopted crown and eight years of history lessons!"

"At least I have a prospect," Cor bellowed back. "But you: where will you go when your father finally croaks? I know—you'll be a poor old maid, and I'll sit on my throne and _laugh_."

"I'll hit you, I swear—"

"Ha ha! Ha ha!"

Aravis had never wanted to strangle someone so much in her life. "I hope you rot, Cor," she forced out. "I hope you step in a rabbit hole and break your leg. I hope you trip and fall off a cliff. I hope you get trodden on by your horse. I hope you get a plague. I hope you marry a harpy!"

"We needn't look far for one," he thundered. "Do you want me to wed a harpy? I'll just wed _you_!"

The words came like a slap across Aravis's face, and the stinging pain made her so angry she could hardly see straight. Before she could rush towards that red-faced, freckle-nosed, smug-mouthed knave of a prince and teach him a thing or two about insults, though, two hot hands clamped down on her arms. "Come, my lady Aravis," said Darin into her ear as she squirmed. "You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your tent."

"I wish I'd never asked you to come with me," Cor hissed as Darin steered her away.

"And I wish I'd never returned from Calavar," Aravis snapped. She strained at Darin's iron-like grip, but he led her resolutely to the low little canvas tent she would be sleeping in.

At last, he released her. "Goodnight, Lady Aravis," he said with a low bow, and dropped the flap down. His footsteps retreated, and gradually the pleasant sounds of supper-making filled the air.

Aravis flung herself down on her blanket, scowling into the darkness and pounding the ground with a fist. There was so much she was burning to do at that moment—box Cor around the ears, push Dar into a ravine, shake Corin until his teeth rattled, and burn the whole camp down—that she could manage nothing but wrathful silence. Once, her stomach dared to rumble, but she was so determined in her rage that it quickly stopped.

At last, someone raked down the fire, the camp grew still, and only then did Aravis allow herself to relax. She drew the scratchy blanket up to her chin, and as she did so, a brilliant plan came to mind—she would decline every bit of food offered to her. Surely, none of the lummoxes that Prince Ass had selected would notice for the first few days, but they would eventually, and then they would feel so guilty at her wan but dignified appearance that they would be driven to their knees with sorrow for their actions. And she, being the noble and gracious tarkheena that she was, would refuse them forgiveness!

"Hah," she murmured complacently, the mere thought driving a wedge of pleasure into her stomach.

She would teach Cor that lesson even if it killed her!

* * *

_A/N: I apologize for the lateness of this chapter—I've been working on a few last-minute scholarships and projects. Ahh, high school!_


	6. Chapter Six

_Chapter Six_

The trouble with going to sleep hungry is that you often wake up very hungry very early in the morning. Aravis hadn't quite counted on feeling this ravenous so soon into her plan, and she was almost tempted to sneak out of her tent and have a nibble of bread before the others got up, but then she heard a yawn and remembered—with a roll of her eyes—that Cor had the morning watch.

He paused mid-stretch as she emerged from her tent. Oh, how he looked like he had something to say, but Aravis concentrated only on ignoring him with all the dignity she could muster. (And it was quite a lot of dignity; oh, yes, Aravis was a master of looking dignified no matter the circumstances.)

"I spoke to Corin last night," Cor said.

Aravis worked very hard on polishing the brass buckles on her horse's saddlebags. She was also good at polishing things while ignoring people—she had done it quite a lot while Cor had still been Shasta. In fact, all that was needed was good old Bree and Whin, and it might be eight years ago in Calormen.

"I spoke to Corin last night," Cor repeated stubbornly.

She shook her sleep-tousled plait over her shoulder and continued to rub the dust from the clasps.

"Oh," said Cor, "I forgot. You're not talking to me, are you? Well, even if you refuse to respond, I have good reason to believe that your ears still work, so I'll talk to you anyway."

_Hah,_ thought Aravis smugly, _I've got him._

"It appears that Corin left—on foot—from Anvard the very day we did. He cut right through Shrule Fen (a miracle he survived), which saved him almost a week, and he managed to catch up to us last night." Cor threw a twig into the smoldering fire. "He smells like swamp, but Rys says he mayn't bathe until his shoulder heals."

Aravis finished with the buckles and held the saddlebag out, pretending to admire the glinting brass.

At length, Cor shifted and put the rest of the night's firewood into the flames. "I suppose it's light enough to wake the others. We should be on our way—Nim says there's a small town a day or so north, where we might procure a horse for Corin." As he spoke, he stood and went around the circle, poking his head into each of the six occupied tents and rousing the sleepers therein.

Feeling quite pleased with the progress of her plan so far (she had gotten a good deal of information out of Prince Ass without even having to ask for it), Aravis stood up and went about rolling up her blankets and tent and loading up her sorrel horse. After a few moments, Cor dared to try and help her with the harness, but Aravis gave him a withering look, and Corin (who was eating a bowl of porridge) laughed.

"You ought to know that Aravis needs no assistance tacking a palfrey," he said around a mouthful.

Cor scowled.

"Have you eaten, Your Majesty?" asked Romith as Aravis lifted Inga's hoof to look for trapped stones.

"No, I haven't," said Cor, and left Aravis's side to take a bowl of porridge from Romith. "Ah…smells good. Thank you."

Aravis's stomach rumbled. _Patience, girl,_ she thought smugly, combing the burrs from Inga's mane. _They'll be pleading with you to eat before long._

But there came only the sounds of chewing from behind her. She chanced a peek at them as she flicked a bit of hair from her face; they were eating contentedly, paying absolutely no attention to her.

Inga chose this moment to let out a loud snort and jerk her hoof free; Aravis patted her side with an open palm and muttered, "The both of us, lass. The both of us."

At last, someone sighed. "Ah…excellent nosh as usual, Romith."

"Thank you, Lord Darin."

"Well, then. Let us follow Lady Aravis's noble example"—Aravis distinctly heard Cor snort—"and ready ourselves for travel. Will you give the word, my liege?"

"Indeed. The word!"

Aravis rolled her eyes, and the men laughed graciously at Cor's little witticism, getting to their feet and gathering up their things. "Wait a moment," said Corin. "What's to be done with me?"

"I say we leave you here," Aravis told him. (After all, Corin hadn't really offended her too terribly of late—she could afford to talk to him.)

"We must have you ride, of course, Your Majesty," said Rys deferentially. "Prince Cor? What is your suggestion?"

"One of us must give up our horse for the time being," Cor answered. "But who should it be?"

Aravis gaped—now _they_ were ignoring _her_! Oh, how she hated it when revenge miscarried. As if sharing her mistress's annoyance, Inga put her ears back and tossed her mane, baring her teeth at Nim's big grey gelding.

"I have it," Cor continued with a large grin. "Lady Aravis's mare is quite strong—I think that my royal brother ought to be granted the use of the palfrey. Lady Aravis may walk."

This was too much to bear on an empty stomach. "I beg your pardon, Prince," Aravis burst out angrily. "You mean to force a young woman to walk, while you and your soldier-lords ride leisurely along?"

"Milady Aravis is quite right, my liege," said Sir Borran quietly.

Cor folded his arms. "Indeed, Sir Borran. Aravis is a lady, and ladies are _far_ too delicate for lengthy exercise, as we all know."

Aravis gasped with outrage. "You of all people, Cor of Archenland, should know that I can walk as long and as well as any of you! Corin shall ride Inga, and I'll walk. There it is. And don't bother trying to convince me otherwise—my mind's made up."

"Very well," Cor sighed. "I suppose we must. Go on, friends, put him up there."

Nim and Dor hoisted Corin, bellowing like a wounded bear the whole way, up onto Inga's saddle. As unhappy as she was to see oafish Corin sawing at her horse's mouth with his uninjured arm (was he using the reins to keep balance? Poor sap), Aravis swallowed her pride and waited for the others to rake the fire down and get atop their own horses.

"If it doesn't rain, my liege," said Lord Nim, "I estimate we can reach Clayhurst before nightfall."

"Clayhurst?" Cor responded, swinging up on his thick-shouldered steed. "I can't say I've heard of it."

"'Tis but a small farming village, sire."

"And after Clayhurst?"

Nim unrolled one of his maps and squinted at it. "Latheron, about half a day's journey, and then Sweetlick, the last major town before we meet the foothills of the Archen Mountains again. Heading northwest all the way, of course."

"Of course. Thank you, Nim."

Nim inclined his head and put the map back with its fellows.

At long last, every last blanket and pot was secured to an animal, and the small band slowly set off.

It was a damp day, and Aravis's skirts and boots were soon soaked with dew. The men couldn't keep from harping incessantly on how marvelous the weather was, but they were seated quite comfortably on leather saddles with their feet and faces away from grasping, sweating foliage. Ordinarily, Aravis would have minded little, but she was very tired and cranky this morning, and it seemed a bit like the whole world held a grudge against her. No one noticed, of course; they all kept on going, chattering about this and that and occasionally taking the time to urge her to walk faster.

Every so often, and with increasing regularity, Cor would throw up his hand and bring the whole party to a jangling halt as he grabbed a pencil and his journal and set to scribbling about a certain shrubbery or particularly eye-catching rock. "We have shrubberies and rocks in Anvard," Aravis told him on multiple occasions, but he only muttered nonsense about chronicling his scientific findings in the little journal he kept in his saddlebag. Aravis was more or less inclined to let it go at first, but the problem with being hungry is that you very quickly lose patience with everything, princes included.

By the time late afternoon rolled around, bringing with it pelting rain and violent thunder, Aravis could do little but huddle near the sputtering fire while the menfolk ate their dinners and congratulated themselves on how much ground they had been able to cover before the rain came. Aravis sat in silence, sipping at her watery beer. She had long since stopped being hungry, but instead she ached from head to toe and was fighting the occasional shiver.

_Any moment now, they'll notice,_ she told herself over and over. But then Nim yawned, Corin rubbed his eyes, and Cor announced that it was time for everyone to head to bed. The fire was allowed to be extinguished by the rain, Borran took the first watch, and Aravis curled up in a ball on the damp ground inside her tent.

Sleep came eventually, but, unfortunately, so did wakefulness. The sun was blindingly bright that morning, and Aravis shielded her aching eyes from it with a hand as she went about preparing Inga for the day's journey. It was a rather strange morning—she could see her surroundings, but it was taking her longer than usual to absorb it all.

"I suppose starving oneself will do that," she sighed in Inga's ear. The mare snorted ill naturedly and bared her teeth until Aravis backed away.

"Ready, Aravis?" Cor called out as he ambled past.

Aravis lifted her chin in acknowledgement of him. He raised his eyebrows briefly, but otherwise made no effort to question her silence, a fact that Aravis wasn't sure if she liked or not.

At any rate, the troupe went on their merry way again, more quickly this time now that the prospect of a village (soft beds, fresh food) beckoned. Aravis was initially rather glad for the change of pace, as it freshened her up briefly, but soon grew footsore and weary of walking. No one said anything, though, and they kept pushing on.

At about ten o'clock, there came a fork in the path they had been following. A weathered old signpost dug into the damp ground pointed towards Clayhurst, Anvard, and a place called Gittensreeve Pass. "What's this Gittensreeve Pass?" Cor asked, reining in his horse.

Nim stopped his horse as well and pulled out one of his maps. "It is a narrow valley, milord, between Highloch and Kinmundy hills."

"And is there anything there to recommend itself to us?"

"Er, no," said Nim, looking a bit pained. "Just farms."

Cor rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the signs thoughtfully. "I see that Gittensreeve is rather farther north than we intend to go. Does it eventually arc back south?"

"…No, milord."

"Let me see that," said Rys, and pulled the map from Nim's hands before anyone could react. He studied it for a minute, his wrinkled face almost folding in on itself as he frowned in thought, and then tossed it back to Rys. "It does, Your Highness," he said sternly. "The town of Gittensreeve is also located therein, unlike the testimony of your servant Nim."

Nim cleared his throat as he replaced the map. "That may be, my liege, but the fact remains that I _really_ think Clayhurst is the place to go."

"Clayhurst?" burst out Borran roughly, making Aravis blink. "A den of thieves and murderers. Do you have a death wish, Rys?"

"Th-thieves and murderers, my foot," Nim said with a thin laugh. "I merely think it would be a colorful experience for His Highness. Besides, we are traveling _incognito_. There is nothing to recommend us to a thief more than any other traveler."

Aravis looked at Cor; he was watching Nim with a look much like the ones worn by hawks with clipped wings. A moment later, though, and the look was gone; he was laughing blithely and waving a hand. "Ah, you two. What scamps they are, eh, Aravis?"

"Surely," Aravis said quietly. She was still thinking about Cor's previous expression, and made a note to ask him about it the next time they were alone.

"I say we ignore Borran and go to Clayhurst," burst out Corin. "I can take any robber or murderer that comes _my_ way!"

"Not in your state, brother," said Cor patiently. "Here. Let us sit here for a brief spell. The sun is growing hot, and we will all think more clearly with some rest."

There was mumbled assent, and the horses were led off the road to graze on the damp grass beside. Aravis sat down heavily on the ground, her knees a bit wobbly, and rested her back against the signpost as she drank from her waterskin. The sun _was _growing hot, and she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and leaned her chin on one of her knees.

No rest would come, though, and after a few minutes she wearily lifted her head. Corin, Nim, Rys, Borran, and the others were lounging sleepily in the grass, nibbling on long stalks of it, and Cor was seated on the other side of the path, his journal open on his knee and his pencil moving quickly across the page. As she watched, he looked up at her, then motioned frantically with his pencil hand. "No, no—sit back, Aravis, like you were."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm trying to draw you. Now hold still."

_"Draw_ me?" Aravis cried. "Oh, I have no patience for your cruel caricatures—give it here."

"'Tis no cruel caricature, I swear," Cor protested as she went over to pull the journal from his hands. "The tree behind you is quite unusual, and I thought I would include a human figure to show the scale."

For all his blustering, he let her have the drawing easily enough, and Aravis took a few steps back to look at it unbothered. True to his word, he had drawn her kindly—even a little too flatteringly. But the tree in the background, as opposed to her lounging figure, was nothing more than a few hastily constructed lines. "You're finished?" Aravis asked skeptically.

"More or less. Why?"

She shut the book. "Nothing."

He quickly took it back from her and tucked it under his arm. "Fine, then. Time to move on, I think."

"Where to, milord?" said Rys as he and the others blinked groggily and sat up.

Cor nodded decisively. "Gittensreeve."

Nim sighed heavily, but Rys nodded with approval. "Very good, Your Highness," he said, leaping to his feet.

Aravis echoed Nim's sigh, but only for the reason that she was very tired, indeed, and would rather continue to lounge about in the shade than go back to walking uphill. But go back she did, hanging on rather tightly to Inga's harness as the band went on their way.

At last, just as the sun was at its peak, the trees gave sudden way to plowed fields, the earth dark and fresh. "Ah," said Cor. "One of those farms you were talking about, I presume, Nim?"

"Indeed, milord."

"Excellent. We shall stop here."

Darin cleared his throat. "I do not presume to question you, my liege, but…we rested a mere hour ago. I daresay we have another few hours of traveling in us."

_Speak for yourself, Lord Darin,_ Aravis thought darkly.

Cor raised his eyebrow. "Presume what you will, Darin. We must procure a horse for my royal brother one way or another, and I'm sure this farmer will either trade us a horse for a day's labor or give us money for the favor. We are traveling on a tight purse, you know."

Darin inclined his head and said, "Very well, milord. Shall I approach the man and inquire?"

"Oh, why don't you," said Cor.

"I shall return momentarily."

The rest of the group dismounted and leaned against the fence while Darin hurried his horse down the path. Usually, Aravis was never one to shun hard work, but the sun was so dreadfully hot and her legs were so unpleasantly wobbly that she began to feel a bit dizzy just thinking about whatever the farmer would make them do. Slaughtering pigs? That meant chasing the bloody things and carrying them around. Herding sheep? That meant bellowing and whistling and swatting and running. Mucking stalls, even? Her arms might just drop off.

Darin returned a few minutes later, waving his hand at them. "The farmer—a genial, if rough, fellow—said that aye, he needs help planting his corn, and he and his sons shall be out in a trice."

_Oh, planting_, thought Aravis. _Even better_. She had never done it herself, fortunately, but her father's servants had never looked too happy about doing it.

"Did he say what the wages would be?" asked Cor, straightening.

"Oh, yes—he said that, if all of us save His Highness Corin work until nightfall, he will gladly give us one of his horses and food and shelter for the night."

Cor nodded approvingly. "Most excellent. And you did not tell him who we are?"

"Of course not, sire—only that we are poor travelers in need of a steed."

The farmer would have to be fairly dense to believe that they were all destitute, Aravis observed. Even the cook's cloak was of fine Anvardian wool, and neatly mended.

"Ah, here he comes now," said Rys. "Let us go to meet him."

Dor the smithy took the reins of the horses and tied them to the fence as everyone else, Cor leading the way, went to greet the farmer and his two strapping sons as they set down huge bags of seeds.

"Ah," said he, a short, thin man with an equally scraggly beard. "I am Luan, and these are my sons Aldwin and Lewin—you must be the companions Donovan told me about."

Lord Darin inclined his head, his eyes twinkling.

"Indeed we are," said Cor broadly. "I am Cadoc, of Tullaroan. And this is my brother…Cad."

Corin looked quickly at Cor, lips taught, but Rys subtly soothed him. "I am Emyr, also of Tullaroan, master," Rys said smoothly.

"And I am Hywell of Newry," said Nim.

"Finn," grunted Borran.

"Nevin of Newry," said Dor.

"Brennus of Tullaroan," said Romith.

Farmer Luan clapped his hands. "And what about you, dearest?" he asked Aravis rather suddenly, smiling with gapped teeth. His sons seemed about her age, perhaps younger, but they smiled identically at her. "A bit foreign for this far north, don't you think?"

She stiffened. "My father was a Calormene dog," she said, forcing the words to slide from her mouth like honey. "But I assure you, my mother was as fair as they come. My name is Finuala."

"May I call you Finnie?" asked Lewin, the shorter of the two, with a wider smile.

"Of course," Aravis said through her teeth.

Luan clapped his hands again. "Now that we've all made our introductions, let us get right to work! We shall begin on this end, I think, since it's of little purpose to walk through all this dirt all the way to the other end of the field just to end up here again. Give them the satchels, Aldwin, that's a good lad. Now fill them up…good."

The weight of the corn kernels on Aravis's shoulder nearly drove her straight into the ground, and she had to hold onto the fence post to keep her balance while the rest of her companions got ready.

"A kernel every hand's length apart, now," sang Luan, demonstrating enthusiastically. "Drive the kernel down with your thumb then draw the dirt back over it. So the crows don't get it, now. Have at it!"

Aravis took her row and stared at it. It stretched for seeming miles, then dipped over a rise and out of view. Surely it went on for another fifty leagues after that. Groaning, she took a single kernel out of her satchel, the sun beating on her shoulders, and pushed it into the hot, moist dirt with one thumb. The smell of rotting earth came rushing back out at her, and she had to straighten quickly.

Cor looked at her with a slightly furrowed brow. "You feeling all right, Aravis?" he asked. "Or, should I say, _Finnie_? Do you need to sit with Cad under the infirmary tree?"

She managed a dark look. "I'm _fine_. You just mind your own affairs."

Shrugging, he turned back to his planting, and Aravis took a few deep breaths before bending back to her task. Her head spun with each movement. Once, she bothered to look up, and saw that she was a sizeable amount behind the rest of the workers; so far, in fact, that she could hear them talking but couldn't make out what they were saying.

"This is hopeless," she whispered to herself. _I'll just sit down. It'll make everything feel better._

So she sat, hard, right on top of one of the kernels she had just planted. Funnily enough, she felt even worse sitting down, and the next moment she was slumped over, cheek pressing against the damp earth.

_Well, no one's come to help me up,_ she thought groggily, _so I'll just sleep._ And so she drifted into blackness.

* * *

A/N: …Well, this is awkward. Hi, my name is Sushi, and I haven't updated in three months. Why? Well, um, call it school and procrastination. I graduated last week, though, and am starting to get caught up, now. I promise I won't let that happen again.

…_Did I mention that I'm sorry?_


	7. Chapter Seven

_Chapter Seven_

"…And I was telling my father that Lord Melchett simply had to go."

"Well, good for you! And what did the king do then?"

Aravis began to come out of unconsciousness with heavy limbs and a cottony mouth. The discussion being held nearby didn't falter as she struggled to unstick her eyelids; it sounded like Cor and a girl, but why would he be speaking about court business with a stranger? He wouldn't be, that much was sure. But the voices sounded so real…

"Ah, Your Highness, I think the lady stirs."

She forced her eyes open to see Cor was looming close above her face, staring at her with wide but rather inquisitive blue eyes. "I'm not a specimen in a jar you can gape at," she muttered, blinking and turning her head away. "Now tell me where I am."

"The home of my father," answered the girl's voice. "Luan. We've put you in my brother's bed. You're Aravis, am I right?"

Her head spun, but Aravis pushed herself up and looked around the small, smoky room, heart pounding. There was a wooden chair, a weather-beaten trunk, and a sooty, crumbling fireplace, in which a dirty fire sputtered. "No…no," she breathed, "my name is Finuala."

Cor sighed. "You can drop the act, Aravis. I've told Gyneth everything."

"Gyneth?"

A figure entered Aravis's line of sight. She was lithe, pretty, with a tight plait of yellow hair that she kept tossing over her shoulder—quite loathsome, in Aravis's opinion; a kind of harsh loveliness that failed to hide the severity of her very strange eyes.

"I'm Gyneth," said the Loathsome One with a frosty smile.

Aravis looked at Cor, who was looking at Gyneth. "Lady Aravis of Anvard," she said at last.

"I can tell you're discomfited by my eyes," said Gyneth airily, turning partly and rearranging a little tray of food articles. "I am descended directly from Narnian naiad blood. My mother's mother's mother," she added with a superior smile.

"Bully for you," Aravis said. "I don't know what possessed you, Cor, to make you—"

"I really don't see the difference, either way," Cor answered, waving a hand at her. "It's not as if a simple farming family will do much harm. Isn't that right, Gyneth?"

"Of course, Prince Cor," said Gyneth, handing him a wooden goblet in such a way that he had to cup her hands to take it from her. "Why, my father can barely lift a sword. Here, Aravis, eat."

_"Lady_ Aravis," Aravis responded as Gyneth put a hot bowl of broth into her hands.

"I see no need for such formalities, Aravis," Cor sighed. "Let her call you Aravis."

No one but the royal family of Anvard and her own family at home called Aravis by her first name alone. When she thought about it, she guessed there was no particular necessity to be called _Lady_ Aravis all the time, but it still bothered her to be treated so informally when she hardly knew the wench. Silently, she sipped the broth.

"Carefully, now," said Cor around a mouthful of mead. "Gyneth says that if you eat too quickly on an empty stomach, you'll just vomit it up again."

Gyneth smiled tautly. "I must attend to something downstairs. I'll return momentarily."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Cor put his cup down and pulled his chair close to Aravis's bedside. "Well?" he said.

"I apologize for treating myself so poorly," Aravis began. "It was a foolish, childish thing for me to do and I hope I didn't cause any—"

"Oh, I don't care about that," Cor interrupted impatiently. "I mean about _Gyneth_! What do you think of her?"

"I think she's…" _Awful,_ Aravis thought. But of course she couldn't say that to Cor; what evidence could she possibly use to prove it? "…A good hostess."

"And?"

"'And'? What more do you want? I only saw her for a few moments."

Cor sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes bright. "Isn't she lovely, though?"

Aravis raised her eyebrows and put her stew down. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Well, I don't care what you think," he retorted, frowning at her. "I want you to start the proceedings."

"What proceedings?"

"Heaven above, don't you ever stop asking questions? _The_ proceedings! I want Gyneth to be my queen."

This was a bit much to comprehend on an empty stomach and spinning head; Aravis pushed herself farther up against the thin pillow and stared at Cor. "You can't possibly—Great Scott, Cor, you've only known her for a few hours, at most!"

He shrugged his shoulders, looking a bit abashed. "All right, all right. But I _do_ want her considered for the position, then. I think she's wonderfully pretty."

"I'll consider it," Aravis sighed, leaning back. "You know, you can't just marry the first comely face you happen upon…"

There came a knock at the door at this point, and Cor stretched before standing up to get it. "Your Highness," said Lord Darin, "Farmer Luan has asked me to summon you to sup—good gracious, Aravis is awake! How do you feel, dearest lady?"

"Well enough, I suppose," Aravis said as the older man entered the room around Cor. She pushed the scratchy blankets back, and Darin took her hand.

"Believe me," he said earnestly, "we were and are all very sorry about everything. The farmer's daughter says she believes you overtired and underfed—how could this have happened? Were your rations not enough? You ought to have said something to us!"

Aravis chewed on her lip. "You're right," she said at last. "But I accept your apologies wholeheartedly and I promise that there are no hard feelings."

At first, she felt slightly bad about lying, but Darin's face lit up and he looked so relieved that she forgot all about feeling guilty. "You must rest plenty, of course, before we even think about moving on," he said.

"No, I'm quite fine," she said. "In fact, I slept so long that I think I might join you for dinner."

"If you feel up to it, my lady."

"I assure you, I won't strain myself."

Darin nodded, put at ease, and bowed to her and Cor. "I shall see you downstairs then, my liege and lady."

Cor bowed back and shut the door behind him. "I thought you said it was _your_ fault—"

"Come and help me up," Aravis cut across him lightly. "I shouldn't want to fall down the stairs, you know."

He pinched his lips together, but crossed the room and gave her his arm to lean on as she crawled out of the low bed and tested her legs. They were a bit wobbly for a moment, and she had to stand still before she felt comfortable walking.

"Did you and the men finish the planting?" she asked as he opened the bedroom door.

"Eventually, yes. It went quickly, with all of us working together. Corin has got his horse now—an ugly nag of a thing, called Bartle, but Dor has pronounced it sound, so that's that."

Together, they went down the narrow, steep stairway, pressing against the dirty walls to keep from losing their balance. As they went, the sounds of talking and clattering dishes became louder and louder, until, at the very bottom, Cor reached over and opened the door and showed Aravis into a low-ceilinged dining room of sorts, wherein lounged Rys, Nim, Darin, Corin, Dor, Romith, and the two farmer's sons Lewin and Aldwin around a rough-hewn oaken table. Luan the farmer was waiting on them hand and foot—a dirty apron tied 'round his waist, he kept refilling the menfolk's goblets with dark beer and was very sure to keep the candles high and to laugh heartily at all their jokes. (Gyneth, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.)

"Ah," said Rys, spotting Aravis and Cor, "here is the lady of the hour. Feeling better, my dear?"

"Much," said Aravis, lowering herself onto the end of the bench beside him.

"Mm." He swallowed a mouthful of his beer. "Be sure to find me after dinner, milady, and I'll be sure to give you some restoratives. Eh?"

"Thank you, Lord Rys," she said mildly.

"Must say, my angel, you gave us quite a fright," said Luan with a toothless smile.

Aravis stiffened at the farmer's informality and pet name, a combination she loathed, but at the same time realized that she must get used to insubordination—a whole year of it faced her, after all. "I do apologize," she said smilingly, accepting Luan's offer of beer. "An unfortunate misunderstanding."

With that, she raised her cup and took a sip despite the warning looks Cor gave her. The alcohol hit her tongue with a bitter shock, but it cleared her head a bit as it settled, burning, in her stomach, and she cleared her throat.

"Take care, milady," Lord Rys chuckled, "that you do not drink too much. As lovely as this brew is, 'tis downright disastrous on a weakened constitution."

Aravis was about to retort rather smartly when another door swung open and into the room came Gyneth, carrying a food-laden tray in her arms. "Do I have a meal for you, my lords," she sang out, her skirts swirling as she turned about. The moment she laid eyes on Aravis, though, her smile hardened into a brief but unpleasant look.

"Erm, have you met the lady Aravis, Gyneth?" asked Luan, taking the tray from his daughter and setting it on the table.

"I've had the pleasure," Aravis answered instead, pleased that her mere presence upset the girl so much. "But I'm afraid Gynnie—can I call you that?—was rather startled to see me up."

"Rather," Gyneth said, recovering herself elegantly and beginning to place food in front of everybody. "You look quite terrible, Aravis. I wish you would have stayed in bed."

"I'll bet you do," Aravis muttered.

"Anyway, you are much too weak to be stuffing yourself with such…heavy things as the others." Gyneth smiled and placed in front of Aravis a plate bearing nothing but a slice of bread and a pat of butter. "There. I daresay you've hardly done enough to need much more."

Aravis rather wanted to punch Gyneth in the face. Doing her best to keep smiling, though, she said, "Actually, I'm rather hungry after all. I think I'd like to have what everyone else is having."

"You had the broth upstairs, though," Gyneth replied, still smiling but refusing to give Aravis anything more.

Aravis was rather glad she brought the broth up. "That's true, Gynnie," she answered with a flip of her own plait, "but it was…well, you must know already, but…it was rather _off_, you know."

Gyneth's mouth thinned to almost inexistence, but before anything could be done, Rys chuckled. "Come, now, ladies; let's not fight. Mistress Gyneth, I'm fairly competent in medical matters, and I think it would be quite all right if you be a dear and give Aravis a proper meal. She'll be very careful. Won't you, milady."

Aravis raised her eyebrows in response, but under such pressure, Gyneth had to concede. Gripping the articles very carefully, the girl placed a bowl of rich, steaming stew, thick with potatoes and carrots and what else seemed the best of depleted winter stores in front of Aravis. In addition, there was thick, crusty wheat bread (not like the old, thin piece she had been given previously) and sweet, ruby-red jam to smother it with. What a nice change from Romith's porridge and bean breads!

With a huff, Gyneth left the room. The air cleared up almost instantly, and everyone fell right to eating and conversing lightly with each other. As for Aravis, it was difficult keeping her absolute hunger, piqued by the delicious smells of the food before her, balanced with the need to be moderate with what she actually swallowed _and_ answering, with reasonable eloquence, the questions that Aldwin and Luan occasionally threw her way.

While she nibbled conservatively on her meal, she took stock of her surroundings. A single dirty window, probably the only glass the farmer could afford, faced out into a dark barnyard; the mantel and hearth on the fireplace on the opposite end of the room seemed strangely large for such an otherwise small fire alcove; above the mantel, set into the stone of the chimney, was a curious coat of arms painted on what looked like an old wagon wheel hub: on a background of dim green, a two-headed gryphon rampant of faded red crushed a pale yellow stag in its claws. Supporters of black wheat graced the sides of the green shield.

"Curious heraldry, Master Luan," Aravis noted. "I can't say I've ever seen it before. Are you related to nobility?"

"In a manner of speaking, Aravis," Luan answered with a deep inclination of his head.

She waited for more explanation, but nothing more came and so she turned back to her food. Shortly thereafter, Gyneth came back into the room and began pointedly clearing away the dishes, and Darin and Nim gave Cor painfully pointed looks until he got the hint and stood up.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "we have trespassed on your hospitality long enough. I think we shall all retire to the barn, as agreed, and we shall depart at dawn tomorrow morning."

Luan and his sons, who had stood up at the same time as Cor, bowed deeply. "You have honored us with your presence, Your Highnesses," Luan said.

"Please, call me Prince Corin," Corin said broadly.

Aravis was not sure where the barn was, so she followed Darin and Nim towards the kitchen door. Just as Darin reached for the knob, the door opened and Gyneth swept through, her tray empty.

"Ah," Aravis heard Cor say from behind her, "I was just about to look for you, Gyneth. Do you mind if I speak to you in private for just a moment? It's…rather important."

"Of course not, Your Highness."

Aravis rolled her eyes and had nearly escaped from the room when Cor called out, "Er, Aravis, would you mind waiting outside?"

She knew she really had no choice. So she followed Darin and Nim as far as the kitchen, and watched their shadowy forms walk together towards the barn she had seen as she stood alone on the steps, the cool air fanning her throbbing temples. The door opened and shut a few more times to let the rest of her companions out, but otherwise she was left quite to herself.

At last, Cor came plunging out, somehow managing to trip over the threshold. "She said yes," he stage-whispered, squeezing Aravis's hand.

Aravis opened her mouth to reply, but he let go of her and started hurrying towards the barn. "I'll get the journal for you," he called.

"I sure hope you didn't ask her to wed you yet," Aravis shouted after him. "Otherwise, I shall have quite a time explaining to your father why you picked the first girl you laid eyes on!"

He ignored her quite completely, and Aravis was left alone in the dusk yet again. "Brilliant, this," she muttered, her voice sounding rather loud in the still air.

"Talking to yourself, I see."

Aravis didn't need to turn around to recognize the sneer in Gyneth's voice. "Yes," she sighed with the utmost dignity, "it's the only way I can be assured of intelligent conversation."

Gyneth came down the stairs from the door, an irritating swagger in her step. "You find yourself quite amusing, don't you?"

"I try not to fly in the face of public opinion," Aravis answered saucily.

With a smug smile, Gyneth drew herself up and looked at Aravis down her pert nose. "Well, your prince just asked me to marry him."

Aravis drew herself up, too, but found herself still shorter than Gyneth. (Damn Calormene blood.) "I highly doubt that, _Gynnie_. His Highness Prince Cor requires the approval of the Council of Ministers, the advisors to the king, _and_ the king himself. Cor knows this, and he would not dare ask you to wed him. All he asked was that you be put in a great pool with practically every other girl in Archenland, at the rate he's going, to compete for the honor of even being considered for marriage. And there are still forty-nine weeks to go." She smiled. "That's all."

Gyneth sucked on her teeth, looking at Aravis like a frog watches a particularly nasty fly. "I'm going to have quite a difficult time with you, aren't I?"

"You can bet your mother on it," Aravis answered stubbornly.

"I have your journals," came Cor's voice.

Aravis stepped far away from Gyneth, rather grateful for the interruption. "I hope you didn't lose anything while you rummaged."

"Hardly. Here's your pencil." Cor handed Aravis a pencil and the journal that King Lune had asked she use to document the girls, then gave Gyneth a blinding smile. "I'll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Gyneth."

"Goodnight, Cor," she answered, hunching her shoulders coyly.

Aravis scoffed under her breath and turned to the page she needed so violently, she nearly tore it. Quickly, she scribbled down Gyneth's name and appearance, then reluctantly looked up at the other girl. "Age?" she muttered.

"Twenty-one summers approaching," Gyneth answered sharply.

Aravis dug the pencil into the parchment page as she wrote the digits. "That's all, then," she said with a fake smile. "You can go inside now."

"What if I should just stay out here?" challenged Gyneth.

It was tempting to make an insulting retort, but Aravis only smiled and walked away towards the barn, leaving Gyneth standing awkwardly in the yard.

Inside the barn, the rest of the companions were setting up nest-like beds in a great pile of hay that reached to the very ceiling. Their horses were stabled away, munching contentedly on oats and dry corn, and Aravis couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief as she latched the door behind her.

"Finished with the paperwork, then?" Darin asked.

"Nearly." She walked over to him and the hay, writing in the journal just what she thought about Gyneth: _Nasty girl. Poor housekeeper (the house was disgusting), bad at hiding opinions of people, mediocre cook. I don't recommend her one jot, but Cor likes her so I suppose I have no choice._

Putting her feelings into words made her feel that much better, and she slipped the journal back into her saddlebags with a lighter heart.

"So the girl will travel with us tomorrow, then?" said Rys with a yawn.

Aravis spread out one of her blankets on the hay near Lord Darin and nestled down into it, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. "If she can bear to wake that early," she said, loosening her plait.

"Doubtless," said Cor, flopping down next to her with a blanket of his own. "One thing you get very good at as a sustenance farmer is getting up very early."

"Being a fisherman's helper is not the same as being a sustenance farmer," Aravis muttered.

She could almost feel his glare burning into the back of her head. "Be that as it may," he said icily, "Those who must work for their livings make a habit of waking up with the sun. She will be ready to depart with us, mark my words."

Aravis drew the blanket over her head and shut her eyes, trying her very hardest to forget that Prince Ass lay next to her.

At last, overwhelming exhaustion trumped her anger, and Aravis fell asleep quickly and deeply. Some time towards morning, though, in the midst of a thunderstorm, she awoke rather suddenly with a heavy weight on her chest. At first, her groggy brain thought she was drowning, and she gasped for breath, but the action wakened her to the fact that she was _not_ drowning; in fact, someone was sitting on her! At the same moment, she heard the thin whistle of steel on steel and saw in the faint light the glint of a weapon being brought upwards.

Aravis, though, was a sensible girl, and the idea of waiting to be sliced to bits didn't appeal much to her. With a supreme effort, she heaved herself upwards, dislodging the assailant and knocking them to the ground, their weapon spinning from their hands. The moment they landed, though, they sprang back up again, snatching up the knife and fleeing from the barn just as quickly as they had come.

The barn door, left open and buffeted by the wind, banged several times against its frame before Aravis had gathered her wits enough to raise the alarm. Still breathless, she sat up and shook Cor and Darin violently, crying, "I've been attacked! Attacked, you sleeping fools!"

"Attacked? What?" Cor, Darin, and the others began rubbing their eyes sleepily and looking about.

"Someone was in here," Aravis said, growing more agitated by the second. "They sat on me and tried to cut my throat!"

Cor, Darin, and Rys leapt to their feet at this, and Nim scrambled to light a lantern to see by. "Where is he?" Cor asked groggily.

"He ran out," Aravis answered, getting to her feet so quickly that the momentum carried her forward several steps.

Darin went to the door and looked out into the pouring rain for a long moment, then slowly turned back around, rubbing his eyes.

"What?" Cor urged. "What is it?"

Looking pained, Darin stroked his beard. "My liege, there are no footprints leading out of the barn."

The words were a blow to Aravis's already bruised sensibilities. Rushing forward, she pushed past Darin and stood at the doorway, the damp wind billowing her skirts and lashing her loose hair. There was not a soul in sight, nor were there any footprints in the mud.

"Well, he must be in here somewhere," Corin yelled from the hay.

"No, I saw him leave," Aravis insisted.

She saw Darin and Rys and Cor exchange looks over her head, but before she could display her indignation, Darin closed and latched the door and put his arm around her shoulders. "With all due respect, my lady, you have had a very long day. I think you were confused by the banging of the door—the wind must have knocked it open. Very understandable."

"I'm not—"Aravis began, awash in horror.

"Come on, Aravis," Cor interrupted loudly. "We've got to have an early start tomorrow. Let us go back to sleep."

"I know what I saw," she countered, shaking Darin's arm from around her. "Don't treat me like a foolish child!"

"Perhaps you are," he replied with a flippancy that angered Aravis more than if he had shouted it at her. With one last airy look, he climbed back into his bed and closed his eyes. Aravis was too incensed to move.

"Forgive him, milady," Darin whispered. "You can't expect everyone to be perfect at every moment…yourself included."

How Aravis wished to slap the man! But that would show the immaturity they expected from her. Instead, with a dignified look, she retrieved her blanket and went to go sleep in Inga's stall.

* * *

_A/N: …/end _Blackadder_ references._


	8. Chapter Eight

_Chapter Eight_

Aravis was most unpleasantly awoken the next morning by one of Inga's well-aimed hooves coming down right on top of her ankle. Her resulting yowl of pain made the mare flatten her ears and kick the stable door quite noisily until Dor unlatched it and led her out, leaving Aravis to massage her throbbing ankle in irritable silence. The familiar sounds of packing and saddling horses, and the subsequent meaningless chatter ("Nice day for traveling, my liege." "Have you been outside yet, Lord Nim? I thought not."), filled the barn, but she remained stubbornly sequestered in her corner, wrapped in her scratchy blanket. Why should she deign to grace them with her presence, she thought angrily. They'd only laugh and pat her head.

Eventually, Corin came in and dragged her semi-bodily from the stall and set her on her feet, saying, "Come along. Gyneth's prepared us breakfast before we leave."

"Oh, joy," Aravis snapped, shaking free of the young man. "Just what I need—more of that rubbish."

Corin sighed and made sure the others were well on their way towards the farmhouse. "Look here, Aravis," he said in a low tone. "I don't like her either. But that doesn't mean you have to be so foul about it."

"You don't like her either?" Aravis seized on this nugget of hope, as small as it was. "Why?"

"I think it's quite quick," he answered. "I just wish my royal brother would have gotten to know her better before he asked her to _marry_ him, that's all. She's hardly queen material, anyone can see that."

Aravis sagged a little. "Oh, yes…I know…" Really, she had wished Corin at least would have acknowledged how menacing Gyneth seemed, as if she knew something the rest of them didn't.

Corin boxed her shoulder with unintentional strength and said, "Oh, come on, Aravis, buck up. We've only a few months left to go."

She really didn't want to, but Aravis followed Corin from the barn, slogging through the mud left by the rain the night before. Inside the farmhouse was hardly better; it seemed as though the occupants had done nothing but tramp in and out of it all night long, for the kitchen and dining room floors were caked with dried-up mud. Gyneth didn't seem to mind it at all—she wore the same dirty boots and dress as the day before, wiping her hands on a stained apron before setting Aravis's breakfast in front of her.

"We must be quiet, now," she said with a sharp look at Aravis as the latter accidentally clattered her spoon against her teeth. "My brothers and father were up very late last night, arranging my things. They have since gone abed."

"Oh," said Lord Rys. "If they were certainly up as late as you say, perhaps you can put to rest a certain…difference of opinion we seemed to have formed."

Gyneth nodded courteously, and Rys looked over his tea at Aravis.

"Her ladyship Aravis had rather a bad experience last night," he explained slowly. Aravis put her spoon down. "She had quite the vivid dream, you see, that someone _sat_ upon her and attempted to slit her throat…"

"It wasn't a dream," Aravis said stiffly.

Gyneth laughed, a high, false sound. "Oh, dear," she said. "Well, my father and brothers never said anything about any intruders…but Aravis needn't worry. Storms used to give me nasty nightmares, too, when I was a babe."

Aravis bit down on her tongue so hard she started to see stars. Quite oblivious to her scarcely contained wrath, though, Cor rapped the table with his cup and stood up. "You see, Aravis?" he said with a glint of superior satisfaction in his eyes. "Just a _nightmare._"

"Why I—"

Both Corin and Darin leapt to their feet as well, cutting across Aravis's angry outburst with feigned gusto for the day's journey ahead of them.

"Yes, well," said Cor, "I suppose, then, we ought to get on with it. Gyneth, are you ready to go?"

"Very much so, my liege," she breathed, curtsying deeply. "I shall follow you to the ends of the earth."

Aravis rolled her eyes, and Corin feigned gagging as soon as his brother's back was turned. Nonetheless, Cor offered his arm to Gyneth and they led the way out into the pre-dawn air, leaving Dor and Romith to extinguish the candles within. Aravis's anger at Gyneth was tempered quite a bit when she saw Inga (as annoyed as she was with the mare for the bruised ankle, she was glad to be able to ride again), Corin's Bartle (just as Cor had promised, ugly and sway-back), and Gyneth's own horse—a huge, thick-shouldered farm beast, taller than both Cor and Corin. She was all for power and agility over appearance when it came to horseflesh, but Gyneth looked so silly atop the thing that Aravis could do nothing but laugh.

"What's so amusing, my lady?" asked Darin, his own mouth lifting at the corners. "We haven't heard you laugh in a fortnight."

"Nothing," Aravis answered, but she was sure to look at Gyneth and then cover her mouth with another snicker. Gyneth turned red with fury.

And so they set off, now two companions greater than when they had departed Anvard's walls. It was not altogether unpleasant, Aravis had to admit; if she and the others let Cor and Gyneth ride ahead, their chatter would not spoil the peace of the day's journey, and she and Lord Darin could admire the rugged scenery all the better (Corin cared little for foliage and landscape, and Nim, Borran, and Rys had all been through Gittensreeve Pass for one reason or another). The path they were traveling began to slope very subtly upwards, and boulders and rocks that lay strewn about grew bigger. The only mountains Aravis had ever encountered before were the gently sloping hills separating Archenland and Calormen; as a young child, they had felt insurmountable, but she laughed every time she crossed them now—the Southern Mountains were nothing compared to the range the company was now approaching.

"Well?" asked Rys when they paused at the crest of a small hill.

Aravis urged Inga up the last few paces, and then took an involuntary breath when the whole of the view met her eyes. Below them yawned a long stretch of green dotted with two or three small farms; on either side, and even at the opposite end of the valley, loomed great blue-grey hills—only the harbingers, she knew, of the majestic and sometimes treacherous Archen Mountains.

"It's lovely," she said at last. "Nothing of the sort in Calormen, of course."

"She's never seen mountains?" wafted Gyneth's voice from ahead. "What a sad girl."

Aravis stiffened and opened her mouth, but Corin coughed violently and said, "Oy, Cor! I think we ought to stop for luncheon, don't you?"

Cor turned in the saddle. "Why? Are you hungry?"

"I wouldn't be asking for food if I weren't, you halfwit."

"And I could use a rest," Gyneth sighed.

Aravis lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not tired or hungry at all. Let's keep traveling."

Gyneth glared daggers at her.

"Well," said Rys, "we have been traveling a goodly time, after all. You may not be tired or hungry now, milady, but you will be before long. Sire, I recommend that we do stop and rest."

"Very well," Cor sighed.

They dismounted and led their horses off the path, taking the bits out so the beasts could nibble the lush early summer grass. As much as she had resisted the interlude, Aravis was relieved to stretch her legs and then settle down into the soft grass herself while Romith set about preparing a light lunch. The sky arced blue above her, and she actually began to feel rather content with her lot.

That is, until her lunch landed in her lap. Before she could move, thick, syrupy honey began seeping through her skirts, and the dark ale she was so looking forward to splashed up onto her bodice and dribbled down into the grass.

"Oh, dear!" said Gyneth, standing above her with empty hands and an unrepentant expression on her face. "How clumsy of me."

Aravis leapt to her feet, splattering bits of soggy bread and honey everywhere. "You spiteful shrew—!" she ground out.

Gyneth just smiled.

"_There_, there," said Darin loudly, stepping swiftly between the two of them. "I'm sure it was just an accident."

Aravis automatically glanced at Cor for support, but he, with a dark expression, pointedly looked away. This silent snub stung more than it ought to have, and Aravis clenched her fists together. "It was no accident," she said stubbornly, turning away from Gyneth and Darin. _"Corin._ You believe me, don't you? You saw her! She deliberately dumped the food on me, and now see. I'm fit only for a bear's luncheon."

Corin, who had looked rather startled at being called upon so abruptly, rubbed the back of his neck and turned an awkward crimson color. "Er, I wasn't looking, Aravis…"

"You _liar_!" The words burst out of Aravis with no warning, and she suddenly found Nim and Borran stepping forward, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

"Take heed, milady," said Nim grimly. "You go too far."

It took a great effort, but Aravis, in the dim recesses of her brain where her prudence resided, realized that she could very well abuse the princes however she liked when they were alone, but in the presence of others it was a very stupid thing to do. Therefore, mind overruled gut: she nodded stiffly and folded her arms, as obvious a display of submission as she could bear to make.

"There, now." Corin came forward and put his hand on Borran's shoulder. "At ease, men; the Lady Aravis poses no more threat than any of us. Come along, dear friend Aravis"—he came over and put a firmly insistent arm around her—"and let us find you somewhere to clean up."

Aravis begrudgingly took her saddlebag from a meek and downward-gazing Dor and went along with Corin into the cool silence of the trees. As soon as they were out of earshot, though, Corin dropped his arm from around her and said, "You're thicker than I thought, Aravis!"

"I only did what you would have done," she answered sharply, shooing away a fly that came to feed on her honey-encrusted skirts.

Corin flushed angrily. "Let's get this straight, Ar'." She hated it when he called her that. "_I_ would have knocked her down right then and there. But I'm a prince, you sod, and I'm allowed to knock people down from time to time. _You_ are a lady, a guest of my father. And if you don't be more careful, I'll—" He paused, casting about furiously for something to threaten her with. "Well, I'll knock you down!"

"A regular rhetorician, aren't you?" she asked dryly.

Corin scowled. "Look here, you. I know you don't like Gyneth, and I don't like her either, but _Cor_ does, and as much as you want to box him around the ears for being an absolute prick, _he's_ the Crown Prince, and he can send either of us home any time he likes. And we both know he's absolutely hopeless without us, so we've got to suck it up and stick it out. I don't like it any more than you do, but look at us—we're in no shape to travel home alone. You're a girl, and I've got a hole in my shoulder."

"What does being a girl have to do with it?" Aravis asked indignantly. "I'll have you know I can still ride a horse better than you can."

"But I don't look like an innocently unguarded young maid just waiting to be snatched by the first bandit I happen upon," he answered. "And don't distract me, Aravis! This is what I'm talking about—just be quiet and listen to people for once."

"Oh, _you're_ the ultimate teacher," she exclaimed. "Prince 'I'll knock you down if you beat me in a footrace' Corin."

"That was _once_," he sputtered. "And Father made me apologize to you!"

Aravis stuck her nose up at him. "I am in no mood to heed you, Corin."

"Suit yourself. You're so bloody stubborn, it'll teach you well to be sent home a time or two."

He went one way, and Aravis went the other, deeper into the forest to alternately fume and change frocks. When she pulled the soiled one over her head, the honey got into her hair and tugged long, gooey strands from her plait, and she muttered a few choice curse words as she used a unstained part of the skirt to rub them clean before picking out another short, faded dress to put on.

She had barely done up the laces in the front and re-plaited her hair when a twig snapped and Gyneth appeared, walking towards the path and looking startled to see Aravis there. (She must have slipped away while Aravis and the others were arguing, Aravis reasoned.)

"Gone somewhere?" she asked coldly, rolling the sticky dress into a ball and stuffing it back into her saddlebag.

"Sending a letter to my father," Gyneth answered, flashing an empty pigeon pouch at her waist. "He asked me to write often—he and my brothers rarely venture beyond our farm."

With that and a tight smile, Gyneth proceeded back to the others, leaving Aravis more than a bit confused. For one, she hadn't noticed that Gyneth carried a messenger pigeon—though it was not unusual, farmers using such an inexpensive and unreliable mode of communication—and for another, she couldn't quite figure out why in the world Gyneth would write to her father after being gone for only six hours…unless she was writing to gloat about her recent victory against Aravis The Foreign Witch.

Aravis sighed. As unsatisfied with the explanation she had been given as she was, Gyneth had been gone only a few minutes, and what possible mischief could she have gotten into in that space of time? So, clothed in a fresh frock and having quite argued herself out for the time being, she shouldered her saddlebag and headed back to the others.

_

* * *

A/N: A bit late, sorry! Been rather busy lately, and the beginning of this chapter was particularly onerous. Don't you hate quasi-writer's block? :/_


	9. Chapter Nine

_A/N: Woah! I live! This poor old fic is so dusty…silly me thought college life was going to be easy. Welp, it's not, but now that I'm a crotchety old junior, I think I've gotten my life a little more under control—at least, enough for me to slowly start working on _The Fledgling Year_ again! That being said, I beg of you all to cut me a bit of slack for the next few weeks—I'm really quite rusty!_

_ If you've forgotten what's happened up till now, you're not alone. Basically, the companions are moving into the northern Archen Mountains (the boundary between Narnia and Archenland). They have added Gyneth, a candidate for Cor's queen, to their midst, but she and Aravis absolutely do not get along. In fact, Aravis quite distrusts her, but cannot figure out why…_

_ We pick up the morning after leaving Gyneth's father's farm._

_Chapter Nine_

The companions camped that night in Gittensreeve Valley, a shadowy pass through the rolling foothills of the Archen Mountains. It was a cool, clear night, and combined, the homey sounds of burning wood, murmured conversation, the ambient sounds of night birds, and a distant babbling stream were like a lullaby.

Aravis had always known herself to be more comfortable (as one of her maidservants had noted in a rare moment of comprehension) "sleeping on roots and rocks than goosefeathers," but even she was rather surprised at how snug she felt under the cover of the inky blue sky and its mantle of stars. She rolled onto her back and pulled her blankets up to her chin, gazing up at the wide, open expanse—the constellations she was so familiar with were tilted slightly, and not in their normal place. Beomia the Warrioress was leaning on her sword arm, looking almost as though she were reclining the same way Aravis was. And there was the Northern Dragon, its mouth poised as though to consume the distant peaks of the mountains, like its historical counterparts had done to Archen villages of old.

She shivered a bit, remembering the terrifying old stories Cor used to tell her when they were children.

"Are you cold, my lady?"

Lord Darrin's soft voice startled her out of her reverie, and she turned to look at him. It had often occurred to her that the older man was a picture of healthy Archenlandianism—strong cheekbones, a noble nose, and a full lower lip—and these fine features were thrown into sharp contrast by the glowing light of the fire. She had often wondered, after hearing of his mighty deeds at the battle for Anvard so many years ago, why he had never taken a wife.

"No," she answered him, "I thank you."

He nodded and pulled his own blankets up, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

Aravis turned away from him, thinking suddenly of the thick book Cor had given her upon her return to Anvard. Perhaps he had included some of those stories she had loved so much?—dragons and invading hordes and evil magicians and incoming storms!

But the rucksack containing the precious cargo was set up with all the others on the other side of the fire, and she was still far from wanting to give Prince Ass and that despicable Gyneth the satisfaction of seeing her fetch it. With a sigh, she turned away from Darrin and pushed her head further into the firmness of her pillow. If she tried very hard, she could remember bits and pieces of myths and legends, and they played like colorful scenes against the darkness of her eyelids…

"Rys, are you taking the first watch?"

Cor's voice broke through the mists of her oncoming sleep. Frowning with frustration as she rubbed her aching eyes, Aravis pulled her blankets up higher and tried to relax again, but with a puff of dust and much rustling about, Cor threw his bedroll down next to hers and settled in for the night. Aravis bit the inside of her cheek—he was the last person she wanted to sleep near, especially considering he had a bad habit of using whatever was nearest as a pillow (she recalled one oft-recounted night when he was still Shasta that she had awoken to find him wedged between her and Hwin like a sardine in a barrel).

She peeked at him from under her lashes. Apparently so tired he hadn't even bothered to take off his cloak, Cor lay sprawled out on his back and was already breathing deeply. His cloak pin, a small gold piece with the royal stag upon it, glimmered in the firelight under a new piece, a two-headed gryphon carved from red stone and hanging from his neck on a worn leather tie.

_Gyneth must have given it to him_, Aravis thought spitefully. Still, she stared at it, somewhat mesmerized by the play of the golden light on its crimson surface.

The sudden realization made her sit up slightly. The coat of arms in the famer's kitchen, with the two-headed crimson gryphon crushing the yellow stag in its claws—her exhausted brain ground into action, wracking itself for an answer. _What kind of heraldry was that?_ It had to be old; the stag had been a symbol of Lune's line for centuries, and no other families had been permitted to incorporate it into their crests since that line took the throne. But the fact that the gryphon had been _crushing_ it…

Aravis rolled over, rubbing her eyes. Perhaps she wasn't remembering the actual crest properly; maybe it was merely an ancient folkloric piece depicting the chaos that reigned while Narnia was wild. Was Corin right—was she merely looking for reasons to hate Gyneth?

A soft touch at her shoulder made her start, but it was just Darrin, leaning over towards her a little. "Are you quite all right, my lady?" he asked again, half of his face obscured in shadow.

Aravis almost responded sharply, but she bit back her annoyance—after all, Darrin was only doing his duty, as she had been so ill earlier in the day. "Yes, Lord Darrin," she said gently. "I'm just thinking. Don't worry about me—you should rest."

"As should you, my lady. We shall have a long journey tomorrow."

She nodded dutifully and rolled over again, pulling the blankets up to her chin to signify the end of the conversation. Darrin paused for a few moments, then did the same, and Aravis shut her eyes against the flickering firelight.

Aravis was only woken once during the night, when Cor rolled over and nearly crushed her in the process—she punched him groggily in the ribs and he, yawning, rolled back and began snoring again moments later. When the sound of morning birds became ignorable no longer, then, she did not mind slowly opening her eyes. Though the sun had just started to rise above the hills, the coolness of the night before had already begun to disappear, and she was glad they were headed into the mountains where it wouldn't get too hot.

She shook Cor's arm off of her and sat up, rubbing her face with the heels of her hands. Lord Darrin, who had taken the third watch, gazed blearily at her as he stirred the glowing embers of their campfire.

"And how did my lady sleep last night?" he said as Aravis stood up stiffly and tiptoed to the fire to warm her aching joints.

"Fairly well," she said softly, shaking some of the wrinkles out of her skirts. "And you?"

"Very well, indeed," Darrin replied. He stood up, his knees popping, and placed a few thick sticks on the fire. "We hope to reach Wolfdell by nightfall…even for a group of our size, it is inadvisable to travel the mountain roads after sunset."

"And how many miles?"

"Eighteen, my lady."

Gyneth, who was nearly unrecognizable under her mound of coarse blankets, stirred slightly, and Aravis answered, "So we shall have to make good time."

"Yes. Pity we won't be able to stop much and enjoy the view. I quite think you will find it to your liking."

"Oh, I don't think we need to worry—His Royal Highness will undoubtedly find some fascinating bird or misshapen tree he shall have to record in his book."

Darrin chuckled a little, and Aravis smiled in return.

"What are you saying about me?"

They hadn't really been doing anything wrong, but Aravis and Darrin jumped rather guiltily at the sound of Cor's groggy voice. He rose from the ground (stiffly, Aravis was pleased to see) and, rubbing his eyes, went straight to the pile of baggage and began gulping away at a skin of water.

"Nothing, my liege," Darrin said sheepishly.

"'S'what I thought." Cor splashed some of the water over his face and neck. "Darrin, wake the others, would you? We ought to get a move on if we're going to reach Wolfdell by tonight."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Aravis remained by the fire, poking at the glowing embers with a long stick as Darrin went around and shook the others awake. Some were easier to wake than others—Sir Borran sat bolt upright the moment Darrin touched his shoulder, but Corin went on snoring until Darrin was practically rubbing his face in the rocky dirt. Even then, he nearly went back to sleep before Darrin hauled him upright by his shirtfront.

Cor had watched the proceedings in silence as he slowly toweled off his neck, but he soon said, "Aravis, you'd best wake Gyneth."

Aravis gave him her most displeased look, which he returned rather frighteningly until she grudgingly turned and went over to Gyneth's sleeping mound. Her flaxen head was just barely visible under the thick blankets she had demanded the night before, and Aravis was struck by the sudden desire to dump a bucket of water on it.

Prince Ass was watching, though, so she had to satisfy herself with nudging the mound a few times with her toe. When the part-nymph only snorted in response, though, Aravis felt no qualms in prodding several sensitive spots with her sharp stick.

"_Aravis_!" Cor snapped as Gyneth squealed with surprise.

"What?" Aravis said shamelessly, stepping back as he hurried to kneel by Gyneth and make sure she was all right. "You didn't say _how _to wake her."

The scowl Cor turned on her was enough to curdle milk, so Aravis shrugged and retreated to the fire where Romith was warming osme of last night's pottage. "Milady," he said as she lowered herself to the dirt with the utmost dignity.

Breakfast was a subdued affair—Gyneth gave injured sniffs throughout the meal, and Cor accordingly sent Aravis angry glances which she ignored with decorum. The others, with the obvious exception of Corin who had never had any shame anyway, were cowed into silence by the tension between the three warring personalities.

At long last, Borran looked pointedly at the rising sun, and everyone went about washing their hands, rolling up their bedding, and readying the horses for another day's travel. Now that the sun was directly ahead of them, the Archen Mountains looked even more savage than before, and as Aravis at last swung up on Inga's back, avoiding a sharp nip, she couldn't help but think of the look on the stag's face as it was crushed in the claws of the blood-red gryphon.


	10. Chapter Ten

_A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the patient wait! I promised to start updating this fic again, and I'm not lying! I've already started on chapter eleven, so stay tuned. :) -Sushi_

Chapter Ten

Even with Gyneth's enormous farm beast to weigh them down, the companions made good time that morning on their way to the King's Arms Inn, Wolfdell. The heat that had seemed imminent never made good on its threat, for which Aravis was grateful (she might be Calormene, but she had spent enough time in the north to appreciate the beauty of a cool day while traveling). The sun, in fact, barely seemed to reach them at all once they left Gittensreeve Valley; if the mountains weren't shading them, the thick, overarching trees were.

They stopped briefly midafternoon for a bit of lunch; no one really felt like starting a fire, so Romith spread some Anvardian honey on hunks of rye bread and passed them around. Even if the men had had much to say, the thick stickiness the honey was famous for prevented them from doing so, and Aravis spent a very pleasant time lounging on her back and licking the crumbs off her fingers as she listened to birdsong and the homey sounds of resting horses.

As the day grew on, the dusty road grew wider and more rugged with the signs of regular use. Wolfdell, it appeared, was popular with mountain traders and travelers on their way to or from the south of Narnia, and so saw most of its activity in the late spring and summer.

"What do Wolfdell's inhabitants do in the fall and winter months, then?" Aravis asked as the gates of the town, heavily shadowed by the setting sun, came into view over the crest of the next hill.

"Many of the men are trappers," Sir Borran answered in his low voice. "There are some small gardens and the like, but the soil is too rocky for much farming."

"I see. And the women?"

"The women of Wolfdell are surprisingly gifted tanners, milady," Borran replied, sniffing the air pointedly.

Aravis drew a breath of cool mountain air in through her nostrils and almost immediately regretted it. Underscoring the otherwise sweet smells of foliage and moist soil was the more sinister odor of death, and it only grew stronger as they approached the town walls.

From behind the town walls, the deep, brassy sound of the watch bells rung out. "We must hurry," said Rhys, pointing suddenly. "They close the gates at sunset."

Almost as a body, the companions spurred their horses into a lazy trot, their baggage and weapons jingling in time with the striking of the beasts' hooves on the stony path. Inga chafed at the bit and Aravis took a firmer grip on the reins; at the same time, though, her stubborn heart ached just a little at the sight of the fine beast being bridled in.

Cor spurred his hot-blooded bay into motion behind them, cantering past Aravis and Inga with the taunting jingle of steel on brass. Inga flattened her ears and bucked slightly against Aravis's tight control, and Aravis herself felt a wave of resentment and wistfulness—Inga had not been bred for the mountains; rather, she was descended from the long-limbed, hot-tempered wild horses that had once thundered across the broad, flat plains of Narnia. In that way, Aravis thought, they were very alike: both transplanted foreigners in a strange land where no one quite understood them.

She let the reins go.

For a moment, Inga continued at the same plodding pace, not aware that she had been given her head. The next second, though, she shot forward, her fine ears straining forward as Aravis bent obediently over her neck, clinging on as cold mountain air rushed over them. In a flash, they passed Cor and his big bay, and Inga snorted as though laughing at them.

The town wall guards leapt aside as Inga stormed through the gates, whinnying as she slowed to a canter, then a trot, in a muddy courtyard. Aravis could not help but draw her shoulders back as Inga paced about: the beast was a fine animal, and she was arching her neck and tail and lifting her muddy hooves high, much to the admiration of the townspeople who looked on. Inga whickered, and Aravis patted her lathered neck.

The other companions came thundering in behind them, and as soon as Romith and his fat little pack pony were all the way in, the gatekeepers began to haul at the heavy chains that drew the high, thick doors shut.

Cor made eye contact with Aravis across the confusion of horses and baggage, his brow furrowed above his scruffy new beard. Inexplicably, Aravis felt the heat of a flush creeping across her cheeks, but she maintained the gaze without faltering, daring him to confront her.

Suddenly, a great cry arose from the broad main street ahead of them. Aravis whirled around, reaching for her claymore for the first time since they'd left Anvard just as Lord Darrin drew his greatsword. "Stand fast!" he bellowed, jostling Inga and Aravis aside as he and his big horse moved to the front of the group.

Aravis had to laugh with relief, though—the crowd that was lining the street was not hoisting spears or swords, but their raised hands were waving and throwing flowers. "Long live the future king!" they were crying.

Despite the cheer of the welcoming committee, Aravis couldn't help but notice the fearful expressions on the men's faces. How did Wolfdell know who they were? Yes, every noble family in Archenland possessed copies of the royal portraits, but they had been painted years ago, and the bright, freckled face of Cor's youth had been changed forever by the beard, the mark of manhood in his face, and the broadness of his shoulders. At any rate, the scruffy, dusty, lanky man she was looking at bore no resemblance to the popular image of the High Prince.

With his mouth in a grim, anxious line, Cor urged his horse forward. Darrin and Corin followed immediately, flanking him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. Aravis could almost taste their tension. As she merged into the column of horseflesh, however, she put a gracious smile on her face as only befitted a lady of Anvard. No matter how the town came to hear of their identity, these people were to be Cor's subjects in a matter of months and it would do no good to disappoint them.

It would take an effort to let them down, though, Aravis observed; ahead of them, Cor gave a slightly nervous wave, and the throngs of people cheered louder and showered the companions with bits of colored paper. There was a tug at her skirts, and Aravis turned to see a small, dirty-faced little girl holding up a fist of mountain thyme with a shy smile.

"Thank you, young miss," Aravis said solemnly, accepting the flowers.

The girl squeaked in response and darted back into the crowd.

Smiling, Aravis tucked the thyme into her saddlebags, where it peeked out and bobbed jauntily in time with Inga's steps. Ahead of her, Darrin and Corin were also bedecked with flowers; the garlands dragged along the dirty cobbled street beside their horses' hooves.

Cor, Corin, and Darrin waved once more and turned their horses to the right, cobblestones giving way to a courtyard of packed dirt. Aravis looked around curiously—a rhythmic squeak above their heads made her look up, and she saw a weathered sign with the words "King's Arms Inn."

Romith, who was last in the courtyard, leapt off his pony and drew the inn's gates closed before the townspeople, who were pressing forward, could stream in. Darrin and Borran relaxed visibly, and Cor even laughed as he swung down off his horse. "What a welcome," he said broadly.

"I must say, sire," said Rhys, "that I quite worried about your safety. The king's emissaries are not always welcome in such remote areas."

Suddenly, there was a crash, and everyone spun about to see a short, plump girl standing in the doorway, the ruins of a pitcher of water at her feet and splashed up her skirt. With a high whimper, she turned and fled into the darkens of the building.

Cor shrugged and motioned for everyone to dismount. "I think you needn't worry, Rhys."

"all the same, sire, I think we should consider—"

"Welcome to Wolfdell!"

The great, booming voice that cut across Rhys accompanied and equally large body; the innkeeper strode into the courtyard, a neatly patched apron drawn tight across a round belly and thick arms thrown wide in welcome. "My humble inn is honored by the presence of such noble guests."

The man bowed low as Cor approached him. "Your Highness is very well met."

"Well-met, indeed," Cor answered, smiling courteously. "I am Cor, first son of His Majesty, the king of Archenland, and this is my royal brother, Corin."

The innkeeper bowed low again to both men. "You are most welcome, surely."

"We trust you have enough beds for us?"

"Of course, my liege. Enough even for my ladies"—punctuated by a bow in Aravis's direction—"to have the privacy and comfort they are surely accustomed to."

"Very good. We thank you, Master…"

"Elin, my liege. I am Elin Cowslip, son of Olin."

"We thank you, Master Elin. Now, if it please you, we would have a meal."

Innkeeper Elin bowed deeply, then clapped his hands. As dirty-faced grooms came forward to take Inga's reins, Aravis dismounted, her dirty boots sinking into the damp dirt of the courtyard when she landed. Lord Nim steadied her, and they all headed towards the entrance of the inn.

Once they were inside the leaning stone building, Aravis stood for a moment, blinking in the cool darkness of the corridor. Darrin took her elbow. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked.

Aravis nodded. "I've never been in an inn before," she told him, looking around as her eyes adjusted. "We've always traveled with silken tents…"

"It's merely a dirtier, colder house you pay through the nose for the privilege of sleeping in," Darrin answered under his breath.

Aravis had to laugh, and she accepted his proffered arm before going into the smoky, low-ceilinged dining room. Corin, Cor, Romith, Rhys, Gyneth, and Nim were already seated at a long table, upon which serving maids were starting to plunk large mugs of amber-colored liquid.

Darrin pulled out a scarred oak chair for Aravis and sat down between her and Borran. A serving maid placed a mug of this liquid in front of her, and she sipped experimentally at it.

"The North is famous for its ale," Darrin told her, watching her expression. "Something about mountain barley, I think."

Aravis nodded with silent approval and took another sip.

Elin's food was of that hearty country stock with the taste of fresh air. Despite herself, Aravis found herself quite enjoying the meal. The bread was thick and nutty, the broth was rich, and the meat tender; the ale and the good company made Aravis's extremities warm and her cheeks pink.

The plump girl whom they'd seen in the courtyard made a few appearances, having been introduced to the companions as Elin's maiden daughter, Hana. She was pretty in a domestic way, Aravis thought, with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a sweet, rosy face that matched her personality perfectly.

"She is a pleasant girl," Aravis told Darrin after her second mug of ale. "Don't you think?"

"Not as pleasant as you, milady!"

Aravis laughed. "She would look well at Anvard, I think."

Darrin tried to look very thoughtful, though his own face was growing a bit pink with drink as well. "Indeed…pretty enough to look well on a coin, young enough to bear healthy sons, and yet meek enough to mind her own business at court."

He drowned a meaningful look in Gyneth's direction in another large gulp of ale.

Aravis giggled at the fury that was evident on Gyneth's face when she saw Darrin's reproachful glance. "I shall speak to Hana when I get the chance, then."

The chance came sooner than she expected. The next time Hana came into the room, her arms laden with another pot of steaming stew, Aravis saw Gyneth reach back suddenly, her stretching arms stopping the heavy wooden door from opening all the way. Poor Hana ran straight into the door, and her pot of strew crashed to the ground.

Gyneth started to laugh.

Aravis leapt up and went to help Hana, who was mopping up the mess with her apron and struggling to hold back tears. "Let me help with that," she said, pulling a tea cozy from the table and starting to sop up the broth.

"Oh, no," Hana said quickly, "I couldn't expect such a noble lady as yourself clean up after my mistake."

"I insist," Aravis said, gratified.

Hana smiled with bright eyes. When she tried to take the heavy iron pot back from Aravis, though, Aravis shook her head and said, "You must be exhausted. Let me bring this back to the kitchen for you."

The girl hesitated, then shyly nodded and motioned for Aravis to follow. She did so, and in doing, it seemed that she stepped into another world. The floor in the servants' corridor was dirty and scarred; the braziers in the sconces on the wall were charred with use, and they smoked incessantly. As Hana led Aravis through it, they were jostled by harried-looking serving maids on their ways to the inn's multiple dining rooms.

"I'm sorry for our appearance, milady," Hana said, pushing the kitchen door open with her hip and holding it open for Aravis.

"I think it's quite nice, really," Aravis answered truthfully as she ducked a drying bunch of herbs.

Hana smiled and took the pot, moving through the clouds of fragrant smoke to the huge fire, where a greasy-faced kitchen boy was turning a suckling pig on a spit. "The inn was built by my father's great-grandfather, milady," she said softly, kneeling to ladle out more strew from a tureen in the red coals of the fire.

Aravis gazed around the dark room at the many generations of dirt. How many meals had been prepared by how many cooks in this very room? "And will your brother take over the management after your father?"

Hana smiled ruefully. "I haven't got a brother, milady. My future husband and I"—she sighed a bit—"will do it."

"And do you wish to run the inn like your father does?"

Straightening, Hana picked up the pot and braced it against her hip. "I don't wish to sound ungrateful, milady, because truly I'm not. But tending an inn is a hard life's work, and I begin to feel tired and worn out just thinking about it."

Aravis threw the stew-sodden rags into a basin of other dirty cloth. "What if I told you that you might not have to tend the inn—now or ever?"

"I'd say your ladyship was being rather idealistic, milady, with all due respect."

"His Highness the Crown Prince is under direct orders from his royal father to seek out a bride," Aravis said, the words tumbling from her mouth. "My role is to assist the prince in this process, as the maiden he chooses will take my place as lady of Anvard."

Hana set the stew down and fiddled with her apron, her eyes bright despite the smoke. "And…milady is not…bitter about this? If you'll forgive the presumption."

Aravis gave a very unladylike shrug. "I suppose not. The king hasn't said as much, but I do think he intends for me to find a husband, too."

"His Royal Highness the Crown Prince does not wish to marry you?"

The look on Aravis's face must have startled Hana, for she blanched and stammered out, "I—I—I don't wish to be impertinent, y-your ladyship—I only wondered that two such noble p-persons in need of spouses do not—do not turn to each other…"

Aravis smiled, a little startled herself. "You needn't apologize, Hana. I just suppose His Highness aren't…how should I put it…_compatible_."

Hana nodded, though her cheeks were still rather pale. "So…what is your ladyship proposing I do? About His Royal Highness, I mean."

"Well," Aravis said, leaning against a low countertop, "if you accept our offer, you will travel with us for the rest of His Highness's fledgling year—about ten and a half months, now. When we return to Anvard, you and the other maidens His Highness and I select will be interviewed by His Majesty's privy council. The council will submit their recommendations to Prince Cor, who will then choose from these who his bride shall be."

"I see," Hana whispered.

Aravis watched the girl carefully. Her emotions played clearly across her face—they would have to train that out of her if she were ever to make an effective queen. 'Well?" she asked after a suitable amount of time had passed.

"What if His Highness doesn't pick me?" Hana asked quietly, twisting her dirty apron between her fingers.

Aravis hadn't thought of that. "Well," she stalled. "You will of course be allowed to remain at court for a time while you consider your affairs. There are also quite a few men in the royal city who are of means and in want of a wife—the very fact that you have been considered to be queen will make you eminently marriageable."

Hana managed a smile at this. "So I will not be sent home in disgrace if His Highness chooses someone else?"

Aravis laughed lightly. "Oh, hardly—the new queen will need ladies-in-waiting, will she not? If by chance you do not wed, there will always be opportunities for you."

Hana began to relax. "And milady will be with us until then?"

"Of course."

"Then I will go," she declared, throwing her shoulders back and looking rather regal, indeed.

"Excellent!" Aravis clapped her hands. "I shall inform His Highness. You might pack your things and tell your father."

"What if he doesn't give his permission?" Hana squeaked, looking fearful again.

Aravis waved her hand in the air. "Then you shall come anyway. I never asked _my_ father if I might come to Archenland."

Hana looked flabbergasted that a young woman would undertake such a journey without the permission of her father, but Aravis turned away. "I'll have some record-keeping in the morning when we leave, Hana, and you'll sign some things then. Does that sound all right to you?"

"Yes, milady," Hana breathed, dropping a deep curtsy.

"You might call me Aravis, I think," Aravis said as she left the smoky kitchen.

Darrin stood up as she returned to the dining room. "What did she say?"

"She seems nervous about it, but she's agreed to it," Aravis sighed, sitting down in her seat and suppressing a yawn.

"I'll tell Prince Cor for you, milady," he replied, pouring her another mug of cool ale.

Aravis nodded gratefully and sipped at the froth. For some reason, her discussion with Hana had been exhausting. She had a sneaking suspicion it was an emotional tiredness—indeed, as she sat brooding over her drink, she felt the prickling of tears behind her eyes. She knew she wouldn't start to cry—she hadn't cried in two years—but, as she gazed into the murky depths of hr mug, she realized that she would have to shore up her defenses if she were to perform her duties efficiently this year. Her place in the royal family had only been temporary, after all, and she had known it all along; she would only be lady of Anvard until either she or Cor married. It had always been that way, and always would be.

"Still," she muttered to her ale.

Darrin plopped into place next to her, bracing his arm against the back of her chair. "He's been informed, dear lady."

Aravis pulled herself out of her introspection and smiled up at the tall Archenlander. Ale agreed with him, she thought; he really was much too proper for his own good, otherwise. "You say he's been informed. Does that imply his willingness?"

Darrin squirmed. "He said, and I quote, 'Well, let's let the council decide that, shall we?'"

She had to laugh. "That's just mean. I hope they do choose Hana, just to spite him.

"She _would_ be the better choice," Darrin replied, looking at Gyneth, who had drunk far too much ale that night.

Aravis twirled her mug about, watching the froth creep up the sides. "But you still don't share my suspicions of her, do you?"

He took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. "Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I really don't know what to think, at least anymore. You know my loyalty lies with the princes."

"I would expect no less."

"But I find my loyalty slowly shifting a bit, my dear lady; shifting enough to include you."

Aravis, touched, patted his hand.

"At any rate," he said, clearing his throat, "I have observed how Gyneth treats you—as if she were already queen!—and I begin to resent her, myself. But does that make her guilty of some diabolical deed? Hardly."

She nodded slowly. "What do you recommend?"

Darrin gave a small smile. "Ah, dear Aravis. Do you ask for my advice out of legitimate desire to hear it? Or are you merely a good diplomat?"

"Both," she answered coyly.

He laughed. "Very well. My advice, first, is to be kinder to Prince Cor. He may not deserve it," he added over her protestations, "but then, if he did, it wouldn't be kindness, would it? I know how fond you are of each other, and it would be a damn shame—pardon—if your friendship collapsed this year."

Aravis grumbled in response.

"His Highness is not at his best, I agree," Darrin went on as there was a burst of raucous laughter from the other end of the table. He put his head closer to Aravis's so she could hear him better. "But try to imagine yourself in his position. You are young, suddenly in sole command, lauded and admired wherever you go, with a pretty maiden on your arm…and the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders."

She looked up into Darrin's face, and he was gazing down at her with unreadable grey eyes, gently creased in the corners. "I suppose I understand," she said doubtfully.

He shrugged one of his shoulders in a half-hearted way. "As for Gyneth…just remember that _you_ are Aravis Tarkheena, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkhaan of Calavar, and _she_ is naught but a farmer's daughter."

Aravis felt a gratified blush creeping up her cheeks. "Well, now that you put it _that_ way…"

He gave her a wry grin. "You, excepting of course Their Highnesses, are the finest-bred of all of us. Remember that in your dealings with these women."

There was a tap at Aravis's shoulder at this moment, and she turned to see Hana, eyes bright and cheeks red. "I have spoken to my father, Lady Aravis," she said firmly. "He was reluctant at first, but he has agreed to let me travel with you and be considered for His Highness's hand."

Aravis stood up, beaming, and wrung Hana's hand. "How wonderful! You simply _must_ meet everyone."

"Oh, I c-couldn't," Hana stammered frightfully.

Darrin stood, taking Hana's hand and kissing it as he swept into a low bow. "Well met, Mistress Hana. I am Darrin, Lord of Boldenhal Keep and privy councilor to His Majesty the King."

Hana, now cherry red, stuttered out a polite response and Darrin offered her his arm. "Come, dear madam, let me introduce you to my comrades-in-arms."

Aravis followed the two of them, feeling a bit like a protective mother hen as Darrin gently and chivalrously introduced Hana to each and every member of the small band. When he came to Gyneth, Aravis held her breath, but the girl was so overcome by her ale that she could only manage a bleary glare and a slurred insult.

At last, they came to Cor. He stood as they approached, and Aravis saw Hana's eyes widen a bit, and put her hand on her other arm.

"Your Highness," Darrin said, bowing. "May I introduce to you the maid Hana Cowslip of Wolfdell."

Hana, trembling, curtsied low, shooting Aravis a tight-lipped look. "My liege," she murmured.

Cor bowed. "So you are the Hana I've been told of. Well met, madam."

"Thank you, sire."

Smiling, Cor said, "Well, I expect we'll get to know each other well over the next few months, eh? You might start calling me Prince Cor."

"I wouldn't' dream of such disrespect, sire," Hana breathed.

"Come now. I insist."

"Yes…Prince Cor…"

Cor smiled and bowed himself away. Darrin and Aravis led the shell-shocked Hana towards the back of the room, where she needed a moment to recover. "You will forgive me," she said breathlessly. "I must seem quite silly to you, but you must understand…I've never met anyone so…important…as His Highness."

"Don't be ashamed," Aravis said with a smile. "I thought you did quite brilliantly. Now. Let's go to bed, hmm? We have an early morning ahead of us."

Hana nodded mutely.

"There, there," Aravis went on. "Everything will look better in the daylight, don't you think?"

"Wise words," Darrin said with a nod.

Hana nodded again and turned towards the door, her face a mask of disbelief.

Aravis smiled apologetically at Darrin. "I'd best take her upstairs and see that she packs appropriately."

"I understand."

"I feel a bit responsible for her, you see."

"Of course."

"Be sure to wake me with everyone else, Darrin."

"Yes, milady," Darrin said with a chuckle.

Aravis smiled and hurried upstairs after Hana.


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Chapter Eleven_

Aravis woke from a heavy sleep for no apparent reason. The room she was sharing with Gyneth was dark, faint moonlight streaming through the small, high window and casting soft shadows against the opposite wall. Gyneth, sleeping off her drink, snored softly in her bed nearby.

The hairs on the back of her neck were still standing up, though, and Aravis pushed the scratchy woolen blankets aside and reached for the comforting weight of her claymore. She wasn't sure why she did it, but holding it mad her feel safer as she got up and tiptoed through the room, checking for anything that seemed out of place.

Suddenly, there was a soft footstep directly outside the door. Aravis froze. That was not the step of a drunkard staggering to his bed—it was a purposeful, sneaky step. She pulled the sheath from her blade, slowly so as not to make any noise, and rested it on the top of the nearby scarred bureau.

As she stood there, holding her breath, the doorknob rattled, turned, and the door creaked slowly open. Before she even knew what she was doing, Aravis pounced on the shadowy intruder and pressed her sword to its throat.

"_Aahh! Aravis!_"

A flood of candlelight came around the half-open door, and Aravis gasped involuntarily, dropping her sword as she leapt backward. Cor, his hand pressed against the thin cut on his neck, closed his eyes as if praying. "Lion's _mane_, Aravis," he breathed.

"I'm sorry!" she hissed. "But you shouldn't be sneaking about in the middle of the night!"

The source of the candlelight, Lord Rhys, poked his head into the room. "My lady, you must prepare to leave immediately."

"Already?" Aravis looked out into the hall: clad in various states of undress stood the other men of the group, save Lord Darrin. A chill ran up her spine. "What's happened?"

"There was an assassin," Corin said quite bluntly, elbowing his way to the front of the little crowd. "Cor's all right, though."

"I _was_, anyway," Cor said darkly, inspecting his bloodstained fingers.

"Don't whine," Corin reprimanded him. "Darrin got it worse off."

Aravis's tired brain struggled to tae all this information in. "Please, wait…what on earth is going on?"

Maddeningly slowly, as if she were a child, Corin explained, "Just a few minutes ago, a man with a big knife crept into our room and would have killed either me or Cor if Darrin hadn't run him through first."

"As it were," said Lord Nim, "Darrin got a bad nick in the shoulder."

"At any rate," Corin cut in, "we figure it would be safer to leave town before daylight, so in case the bugger had any fellows, we can outrun the bastards."

"Is Darrin all right?" Aravis asked fearfully.

"Typical woman," Borran growled. "The man's fine."

Aravis ignored the slight and sheathed her sword. "Fine, then. I'll get Gyneth and Hana ready. Where should we meet?"

"The courtyard," Rhys said right away. "We can saddle our own horses."

"Hardly there," Cor blurted out. "Meet behind the inn—we'll be less visible there."

Most of the men nodded and went their own ways, and Aravis went to close the door. Before she shut it all the way, though, Cor looked at her. "Exercise more self-control next time," he said coolly. "I don't want a sword-happy woman threatening my life every time I turn around."

"Maybe I should have nicked your head off, then, and gotten it over with," Aravis said nastily, and shut the door with a snap.

The noise disturbed Gyneth, who snorted and rolled over. Still steaming with frustration at Cor, Aravis tossed her sheathed sword to the bed and lit the nearest oil lamp with a deep sigh. Now that the initial rush of energy that accompanied her fright was gone, she was beginning to realize how deeply exhausted she really was.

"Wake up, you," she hissed as loudly as she dared, throwing one of Gyneth's shoes at the snoring mound of blankets. It hit Gyneth's wooly mass with a thud, and Gyneth grunted sleepily. "Get up," Aravis repeated, pulling her satchel out from under her bed.

"I don't have to listen to your jealous little palace-rat nattering," Gyneth muttered, rolling over.

Aravis picked up Gyneth's other shoe and threw it at her again, this time aiming for the head. It hit its mark square on Gyneth's right temple, and Gyneth shrieked. "We're leaving," Aravis said through gritted teeth. "Now be quiet and _get up_!"

Finally, Gyneth threw the blankets aside and lunged off of her mattress, snarling. Aravis watched with a bit of trepidation as the girl staggered around the bed; she made a somewhat worrying vision, with her purple eyes bloodshot and dirt-encrusted fingers reaching for Aravis's neck.

"You forget yourself," Aravis said warningly, falling back a few steps.

Gyneth didn't answer, but instead groped for the heavy brass candlestick that rested on the bureau.

The tips of Aravis's fingers brushed the woolen covers of her bed as she stepped back yet again, and by the time Gyneth had seized the candlestick and hoisted it above her head, Aravis had unsheathed her sword and whipped it forward until the point slid right under Gyneth's chin and stayed there, steady as a rock. "Put the candlestick _down_," she spat.

Gyneth's eyes flamed with rage, but she eventually dropped the weapon with a thud. "When I am queen, I will destroy you, Calormene bitch," she hissed.

Aravis had a crazy urge to laugh, and she couldn't resist a small smile. "I should like to see you try."

"Is that a challenge or a threat?" Gyneth growled.

"Oh, it's a threat," Aravis said quite seriously. "You might have been given the honor of competing for the prince's hand because of your pretty face, but let me be the one to tell you that you will not survive a _day_ in Anvard. You think you are pretty and charming? The women of the royal city will eat you alive, Gyneth: you are nothing but a farmer's daughter. A fat swine among the hunting hounds."

"And what are you?" Gyneth returned with a smile that made Aravis start to sweat. "So the women of Anvard are blue-blood hunting bitches, but _you_—_you_ are a Calormene cur, not even worth the scuff on the dirty boot used to kick you aside. Oh, you have a smooth tongue and carry yourself like a lady, but there's no hiding that swarthy skin of yours. You think the crown prince would marry a sandy barbarian like you when he can have a fair woman like me?"

_She is right_, Aravis found herself thinking. Then she shook her head. "Your words do me no harm," she said firmly. "I have no designs on His Highness. In fact, this blade has spilled his blood—what makes you think I will shy from spilling yours?"

Gyneth only continued to smirk; Aravis lowered the sword. "Get your things together, Gyneth. We're leaving."

With that, she picked up her satchel, slid her sword into its sheath, and strode from the room.

The sweat was still prickling at her brow when she came to Hana's room over the kitchen, despite her outward calm. _Compose_ _yourself_, she thought, drawing in a deep breath before tapping on the door.

It opened almost immediately, and Hana stood aside to let her in. "I thought you would come," she said, holding a small candle high as Aravis closed the door behind her. "What's happened?"

Aravis told her of the assassination attempt in clipped tones, keeping her hand on the pommel of her claymore.

"I had a feeling," Hana said grimly. "Wolfdell is never safe for strangers for very long. Yes…I expect that we'll be leaving now, then?"

"Yes."

Hana nodded. "It's for the best. I am ready to go, milady."

Aravis blinked and looked at Hana—_really_ looked at her. The young woman was fully dressed, wearing high leather boots, thick leggings, a short grey riding dress of the kind that Aravis herself wore, and a neat brown cloak about her shoulders. She had brushed her beautiful blonde curls into a long plait, and instead of a stunted sword at her waist, she was resting a hand on an old but well-kept leather quiver, stuffed to bursting with handmade arrows and a polished bow.

"How did you—" Aravis started.

Hana hoisted her satchel onto one shoulder and swung the quiver over the other. "When you've minded an inn for as long as I have, Lady Aravis, you come to know its sounds. I heard things I rarely hear tonight—voices, thumps, and faraway whispers—and I knew it couldn't bode well."

Aravis nodded with approval. "The men are waiting for us outside. Come along."

She turned to leave the room, and Hana followed for a moment before turning and gazing one last time at the hot, small, dark room. "I've spent my entire life here, you know," she murmured.

"And you shall spend the rest of it in silks and satins," Aravis assured her.

Hana smiled, picked up the solitary candle, and blew it out.

* * *

The men and Gyneth were standing in the misty darkness of the inn's dilapidated back courtyard when Hana and Aravis came out. Hana took the reins of the nearest horse, a dark bay as far as Aravis could tell in the dark, and Rhys told them in a low whisper to swing up and let him and Cor lead until daylight.

"Where's Lord Darrin?" Aravis hissed, buckling her satchel to Inga's saddle.

"Here, milady," came the man's voice from just behind her.

Aravis turned and went over as Dor helped Hana with her saddlebags. "Rhys tells me you are hurt."

"'Hurt' is a layman's term that hardly applies to me," Darrin replied with false bravado. Despite the darkness, Aravis could see that he was bandaged and holding his left shoulder.

"I forgot," she said nevertheless. "Darrin Strongarm does not get wounded. Nevertheless, you did a brave deed, protecting the princes like you did. What happened?"

"I slept in the corridor," Darrin answered. "The ale dulled my senses, I am ashamed to say, but I nonetheless awoke in time to see a small, thin man creeping past me into the princes' room. I confronted him, he tried to lunge past me, and we had a brief altercation."

"And that's how this happened." Aravis brushed her fingertips against the warm cotton at his shoulder. "Is he…"

"Dead? Yes, milady."

"Where's the body?"

With his good arm, Darrin pointed beyond the inn's gates, where the faint trickling sound of the small creek could be heard. "Dor and Borran placed him in the water…it will look like a drunken brawl, I am told."

Rhys gave a soft whistle and nudged his horse forward. Aravis patted Darrin's good arm and, making sure Hana was securely in her bay's saddle, swung up as well. Inga seemed as tired as her mistress—once Aravis drew the reins in and nudged the animal forward, it neglected its customary buck and whinny (for which they were all grateful). Romith and Dor pushed the creaky iron gates open at Hana's word, and, as quiet as ghosts, the companions slipped from the inn.

Cor and Rhys led them into the thick underbrush of the craggy forest that surrounded the town; it was darker there than in the open, and Aravis loosened her blade and kept Inga close to the haunches of Darrin's grey gelding, Hana to her left. They splashed across the narrow stream—once, Aravis swore she heard a whisper in a tree just behind her, but when she whirled around, there was no one but Gyneth looking drawn and sleepy.

Slowly, the moon slipped behind the clouds, and what light the companions had had was now gone. Aravis relied on the men in front of her, who relied on their horses' better eyesight and sense of hearing to guide them through the rocky terrain.

"I don't dare breathe," Aravis said once to no one in particular, reaching out for some moral support, but someone shushed her quickly, and the group slipped into a heavy silence that reminded Aravis of a grave.

And so, with naught a word and sneaking away like thieves in the night, the royal entourage disappeared like spirits into the murky darkness of the Archen Mountains.


	12. Chapter Twelve

_Chapter Twelve_

The quiet continued for what felt like hours. As the horses picked their way through the scrubby mountain forest, their slick metal shoes occasionally slipping on the many stones that lay waiting beneath a thick blanket of leaves and pine needles, the suffocating blackness of the early morning gave way to the faint blush of dawn. Everyone breathed a bit easier, despite the chillier air, and soon the horses found a deer path that made the going safer.

The early morning birds had just begun to start stirring in the trees above their heads when Aravis, who was flanking Lord Darrin's big gelding on the left, noticed the man begin to lean a little off-center.

"Are you quite all right?" she whispered, moving Inga up alongside him.

He nodded mutely.

"Darrin," she repeated, reaching over and seizing the gelding's reins.

Darrin made a weak attempt to take the reins back, but the movement sent him reeling in the saddle and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he slipped sideways and landed in the stony dirt with a thud that made Aravis's heart leap into her throat.

Hana gasped involuntarily, and Aravis reined Inga in and prayed as she dismounted that the mare's sharp hooves had passed safely over Darrin's prostrate form; it was too dark for her to see any physical injuries, but when she slipped her hands under him to turn him on his back, her fingers came away warm and sticky—the bandage on his shoulder was sodden with blood, and he didn't respond to her touch.

"Rhys!" she said as loudly as she dared, feeling for the punch of Darrin's pulse in the soft flesh of his throat. One second—two seconds—three seconds—and there it was, faint but steady. She breathed a sigh of relief and said, her face close to his ear, "Lord Darrin, try to stay awake."

He groaned and stirred, but another wave of hot blood rushed over Aravis's hand, and she pushed him back down. "Don't move. Rhys is coming. You'll be right as rain in a few moments."

Rhys hurried over a second later, his hands full of pouches that clinked and crunched as he set them down in the dust; Nim was right behind him, holding up a makeshift torch of twigs and leaves. "His bandage worked loose," Rhys tutted, nudging Aravis aside rather rudely and loosening the ties of Darrin's tunic.

Aravis couldn't help but watch as the men removed Darrin's tunic, blood-soaked as it was, and began the distasteful job of scrubbing his skin clean with a scratchy woolen blanket. When that was done, Rhys opened some of his pouches and began sprinkling nameless substances into the gaping wound on the man's shoulder. Slowly, the blood stopped, and Rhys then re-bandaged the shoulder and stood back.

"We should make camp here, my liege," he said to Cor, whose pale face looked drawn in the torchlight. "Lord Darrin shouldn't ride until he's recovered a little—a few hours, at the very least."

Corin began to protest, but Cor held up his hand. "Rhys is right. We all need a rest. Nim, Romith, Borran, and Dor, begin clearing us a safe area for a camp. Corin, take Aravis and gather enough firewood for the night. We must keep the wolves at bay."

"What about me, sire?"

Aravis turned—it had been Hana who had spoken, standing just barely within the light of the fire.

Cor looked rather taken aback. "Oh, I couldn't possibly ask a lady to…"

"Pardon me, my liege, but you've given Lady Aravis something to do." Hana said it respectfully, but the challenge was clear.

"W-well, yes," Cor stuttered, "but—but Aravis is…"

Aravis turned to look at him so fast she cricked her neck. "Yes, _sire_, what am I?"

Cor refused to meet her gaze. "Hana, you and Gyneth can rest easy for tonight. You must be exhausted."

He turned away, signaling that the conversation was over, but Hana drew her shoulders back and said with the utmost deference, "Please humor your humble servant, my liege. If I am to accompany this illustrious body, I must feel as though I have made a contribution."

Cor stammered out a protest, but Hana cut across him, saying, "If I am to make an effective queen, my liege, I should know what it is to work well with men of your standing."

There was silence for a moment, and the men looked at each other with surprise. With a deep breath, Cor drew his shoulders back and said evenly, "Very well, madam Cowslip. If you would be so kind as to tend to the horses—they should be relieved of their burdens, brushed, and watered and fed. Dor will offer assistance if you should need it."

Hana, completely unfazed, curtsied and said, "Thank you, my liege."

Aravis tried to hide her smirk as she passed Cor to go about her business. As it were, he fixed her with a furious gaze, and she couldn't help but say so quietly only he could hear, "I rather like her."

* * *

It seemed hours before camp was ready for their rest. Aravis and Corin had gathered enough firewood to burn a thousand head of cattle, it seemed, and it all rested near Cor's tent with a reassuring solidity that Aravis very much appreciated. Despite the location's anonymity and secrecy, a pall of anxiety hung over the companions, as if there was something just out of the corner of everyone's eyes. Heavy clouds were starting to scud across the inky sky above their heads, and rumbles of thunder in the distance hinted at an oncoming storm.

Romith had made everyone tea, and Aravis sipped at hers slowly as, one by one, the men, Hana, and Gyneth drifted off to their tents to catch some sleep before they had to move out again. Soon, the only ones left were she, Cor, Corin, Rhys, and Darrin, who had been set up on a makeshift pallet near the fire to sleep off the restorative herbs Rhys had given him.

While Rhys was putting the final touches on his tent, Cor gazed sulkily at the tea dregs in his cup. Corin looked over, elbowed him sharply, and said, "Cor, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were commanding an army of the dead. You've been awfully mum lately."

The taller twin shrugged and accepted another splash of tea. "I just feel unsettled. Like something terrible is going to happen. Or isn't. I don't know!" He opened his mouth to say more, but then looked up at Aravis and sullenly shut it again.

Aravis wished very much that she could shrink up and appear invisible, but the best she could do was get up and go over to Darrin, where she made a great show of arranging his blankets and making sure he was still sleeping calmly, all the while listening to the conversation.

"…if Father made the right decision."

"Of course he did, Cor, don't be daft."

"Well, you can't lie and say this journey hasn't been a complete disaster so far! You got shot, Aravis up and almost _died_, it's been so damned dry, you or I were almost killed, and now Darrin's injured! Oh, Corin…I never would have thought someone would want to kill us."

He sounded so mournful, Aravis couldn't help but look through her lashes at the twins through the flames of the campfire, still fiddling with Darrin's blankets.

Corin slapped his back. "People will always want to kill us, Cor—we're rich and powerful."

"But I wasn't always rich and powerful," Cor said with genuine woe. "I, of all people, know what their lives are like."

"Look on the bright side, brother. You've got Gyneth, haven't you?"

Cor gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Come now, what's that? I thought you were mad about her."

"Right now, I'm just mad," Cor muttered. "She and Aravis are going to be a problem, I can just _sense_ it."

"So pick between them." Corin shrugged and threw another twig onto the fireplace. "The way I see it, you have one or the other. So pick a pretty face for a queen or pick the one woman who has put up with every one of your weird obsessions for a chum. I wager you haven't told Gyneth of your fascination with _plants_. Or the time that you took that jar of bookbinding paste and—"

"Yes, yes," Cor said irritably. "You've made your point."

"All I'm saying is that you should either resign yourself to the two of them glaring daggers at…"

Corin turned away to fetch some more tea, and Aravis lost the thread of the conversation. It was a good thing, too, for just as she was contemplating running over to the two of them and seizing Cor's ear like she used to, something seized _her_—very gently, it was true, but it made her jump nonetheless.

"Darrin!" she breathed. "You're awake!" She had completely forgotten that he was there—she must have leaned on him in her eagerness to hear the princes' conversation.

Darrin squeezed the hand he'd taken hold of. "I feel like my head has been stuffed with cotton. What did you allow that devious medicine man to fill me full of?"

"A bit of this, a bit of that," she answered lightly, trying to hear Cor's response to whatever it was Corin said. "You know."

Darrin gave a throaty laugh and then grimaced, pressing his free hand to the bandage. "Tell me, dearest Aravis…was I too much of an inconvenience?"

"Oh, hardly! We were all rather relieved to see you up and faint—it's been quite a long night. We could use a rest, and you were the perfect excuse."

"And yet here you are," Darrin said softly. "Sitting by my sickbed when there are a thousand better things you could be doing. You were always so kind to me, Aravis."

And, with a battle-calloused hand, he reached up and briefly touched her cheek.

Before she could formulate a response, Cor came swooping out of nowhere, saying, "Darrin, old fellow, you're awake! Wonderful. Rhys, help him into his tent, will you?"

Rhys obeyed immediately, and as Cor walked away, Aravis leapt to her feet and went after him. "Why'd you do that?" she hissed, catching his arm. "I was talking to Darrin!"

"When you should be sleeping," Cor answered without looking back. "We've had a long day."

Aravis should have expected such an answer, but she couldn't stop her jaw from dropping. Once again, she grabbed Cor's sleeve and dragged him close. "You've been _insufferable_ lately," she ground out, ignoring Corin's curious look. "None of us deserve this treatment—"

"_I've_ been insufferable!" Cor took hold of Aravis's arm and dragged her from the campfire, his heavy footsteps making puffs of dust rise into the air as he pulled her into the furze nearby. "_Me?_ You're the one making every second of my life miserable—"

"That is your own doing!" Aravis spat back. "All I want is a little respect—"

"You shall get respect when you deserve it!" Cor's face was shadowed, but Aravis could just imagine his expression. "You certainly shan't have it now, not with your conspiracy theories and shrewing and unpleasantness!"

"Then don't expect me to call you _prince_," Aravis retorted. "You are naïve and big-headed and you don't listen to any of us—that's what we're _here_ for! No one likes your stupid Gyneth—"

"Don't call her that," Cor growled.

"Fine, then. No one likes your stupid farm harlot! Better?"

Cor sputtered and snarled, then spun on his heel and stalked back to the camp. Aravis felt the fierce pleasure of victory, but it was a hollow sensation; even Corin's expression when the two of them stormed past him to their respective tents did not have the same effect on her mood it usually did.

Instead, she found herself staring at the shadowy ceiling of her tiny tent, cold, dismal, and more alone than she'd ever felt before.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_Chapter Thirteen_

Aravis awoke to a torrential thunderstorm. How she slept through it, she'd never know, but her bedroll was sodden from the thin rivulets of icy cold rainwater that were running through her tent like the thin canvas walls didn't exist. Even her shift was wet, and she had to dig through her satchel to find a clean, dry one before she dressed.

The prospect outside her tent was hardly better. The men were up, and there was cold porridge to eat, but the wind and the rain were so intense that the horses wouldn't budge; Corin and Dor had erected a makeshift shelter for the fire against a sturdy pine tree, but the wood smoked and sizzled until their eyes could hardly stand it, and every time a gust of wind came through, the tarp over their heads snapped and shook cold rainwater down on top of them.

"We'll have to wait it out, men," Cor was saying as Romith handed Aravis a mug of hot, strong tea. "We can't possibly get far in this weather. As it is, the water has ruined an entire suit of leather armor, something we will certainly need in future." He sighed. "I had hoped to avoid it and save time, but my royal father expects us to rest at Dorovan Hall for a day or so. It is only two days' journey south of here, but it is on the other side of Mount Kingshorn, a treacherous path even in summer."

"But surely we will meet with hospitality and good food, sire," Darrin said. The man had recovered somewhat overnight, and his wound was already beginning to heal, but Aravis could still see a pinched look in his face. Rest in a real bed would do him good. "Lord Dorovan was a close friend of your royal father's."

"Indeed," Cor answered, wincing as a crack of thunder seemed to rend the very stone of the mountain they stood beneath. "His daughter, the former queen of Narnia, is in residence for the summer with her two sons. And we can expect to encounter news from Anvard, I'm sure. My father knew we were to stop there."

The prospect of letters and packages from friends and family seemed to cheer the men up a bit, Aravis noticed as she sipped at her tea. Romith and Nim were both married, she knew, and Borran had a teenaged son who was training as a squire in the south of Archenland.

"For now," Cor went on, "our priority should be keeping ourselves and our belongings dry as possible. We needn't have any rusting or cold-catching." As if on cue, another wet wind blew under the tarp, and everyone shivered.

"Is this what you had in mind when you set out from the royal city?" Hana asked, sidling up next to Aravis with her hands tucked under her cloak.

Aravis gave a wet-sounding laugh. "No, but I guess that's what an adventure is—not experiencing what you had in mind."

The rain continued for another hour or so. When the downpour finally ceased, it left a cold dampness that pierced to the bone, and the sun continued to hide behind ominous clouds. It was good enough for Cor, though, and soon enough the chilled companions were back on their mounts, grimacing on top of damp saddles. Once, the sun peeked out, telling them it was near noon, but then it disappeared again as the horses climbed higher into the mountains.

"Do all mountains get this cold?" Aravis asked Darrin once, her teeth chattering as a gust of wind scattered drops of rainwater and pine needles on her head. "It seems so strange that yesterday morning, we were lounging in the sun, too warm to make a fire."

Darrin nodded. "This is Archenland, my dear lady. The weather here is as fickle as a woman's—" He caught sight of the look on her face and quickly amended his statement to, "Er, ah, it's fickle."

She raised an eyebrow.

The next few hours passed in relative silence; the distant rolls of thunder from the other side of Mount Kingshorn made the horses lace their ears back, but otherwise it was calm going.

That is, until Gyneth screamed.

At first, no one registered the sound as anything out of the ordinary; then, Hana shrieked as well, and the horses went mad. Aravis knew well enough to tug her claymore from its sheath, but her buckler wouldn't dislodge from Inga's saddle, leaving her left side defenseless as a roar of sound descended upon the band. Inga whinnied shrilly and tried to turn around, but the deer path was too narrow for the number of horses there were—and there were quite a few more horses than Aravis remembered.

"Bandits!" one of the men cried, rather unnecessarily.

Scarcely had Aravis heard this call than a rough, hard hand grabbed her left ankle and began to tug sharply; Inga bugled and reared back, and Aravis brought her sword down on her assailant's left shoulder as the mare's full weight landed on his right.

"No, no, please!"

The sobbing scream came from somewhere behind her, and Aravis finally dislodged her buckler and slipped her arm through it even as Inga, as though reading her mind, plunged through an opening in the fray and wheeled about. Somewhat down the path, a broad-shouldered man wearing a dirty red handkerchief over the lower half of his face had pulled Hana from her horse and was pulling the woman's beautiful golden hair with one hand and forcing up her skirt with the other.

Inga was barreling ahead, and Aravis leaned to the side and clubbed the man in the cheek with the metal side of her sturdy buckler. He staggered back, spitting teeth as he roared in pain, and, with a shriek that rivaled that of the fiercest warlord, Hana seized a broad stick from the ground and brought it slamming down on his opposite temple.

"Nice work," Aravis said, giving Hana a trembling hand as she clambered back up on her horse.

"And you," Hana replied with white lips. She silently nudged her mount away from the man's prostrate form.

Up ahead, now that Aravis could think straight, she saw the others engaged in horse-to-horse combat with other brigands similarly disguised. All wore filthy red kerchiefs over their noses and mouths, and tiny bits of crimson rags decorated their horses' bridles. "Get your bow ready," Aravis told Hana sharply, "but don't shoot unless you've got a clear shot."

"I'll try." With hands shaking visibly, Hana reached back and prepared her bow.

Aravis, meanwhile, spurred Inga back up the shallow rise. It was surprising how much this situation was like the ones Armsmaster Ongli had prepared for her and the princes when they were younger; he would put a large potato sack filled with dirt on the top of a wine barrel, and they would charge their horses at it over and over again, wooden swords and tiny shields at the ready.

_I must tell him about this and how prepared I was,_ Aravis thought with composure as Inga, snorting, plunged into the fray. It was as if her sword was seeking out flesh itself; all her appendages were working in perfect harmony, and she rained down blows on the heads of the bandits, who were still struggling with the men.

Abruptly, there was a searing pain at the back of Aravis's neck, and she was yanked backwards across the saddle, her feet starting to slip from the stirrups. One of the bandits, astride a scruffy dun horse, had seized her plait in a dirty hand and had placed the cold steel of his blade just under Aravis's chin. She closed her eyes and prayed for him to be swift.

Just then, the bandit's dun got too close to Inga, and she whipped her head around and sank her teeth into the beast's neck. The horse screamed and bolted, and the bandit's sword flashed upward, gouging Aravis's jaw and then vanishing from sight.

"Good nag," she said hoarsely, pulling herself back up and applying her sleeve to the thin stream of blood that was coursing down her neck.

Inga tossed her head.

The bandits seemed to be disappearing into the woods, one by one melting away as if they had never been there. _Don't breathe easy just yet, old girl_, Aravis told herself, hoisting her buckler a bit higher. All at once, Inga let out a shrill whinny and kicked out; Aravis spun around in the saddle to see a deep gash arcing across the horse's hindquarters. A nearby bandit held a long knife in his left hand, the tip dripping blood, and brought it slicing down across Inga's haunches again before she could do anything.

Inga screamed and reared into the air, hooves flailing, and suddenly, Aravis felt the whole world tipping sideways. The beast was falling, and Aravis could not loosen her feet from the stirrups before, together, they crashed to the stony ground. The world blinked out in a second.

A moment later, Aravis's consciousness came rushing back with a surge of cool, damp air. Inga was snorting loudly as she scrambled back to her feet, but mercifully, Aravis remained in her prostrate position, her feet freed from the tacking. A cold draft fanned the skin of her shoulders and upper back, she realized, slowly exploring the area with thick fingers—her shift had caught on her satchel as Inga fell, tearing a sizeable piece free from the rest of the fabric.

A sound, strangely echo-y, pierced Aravis's muddled thoughts, and she frowned as she recognized Cor's voice. "Aravis. _Aravis_. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Four fingers swam into view, and Aravis said hoarsely, "Four. Now get away, Cor, I don't need your help."

The arms that were under her neck and back released her suddenly, and she sat up with a rush of pain. "Are those men gone? Is Inga all right?" she asked, rubbing her aching neck.

"Yes, they are, and Rhys will tend to her once he's done with us," said Nim, who was watching her closely. "Milady, are you quite well—"

"Yes," Aravis groaned, pushing herself to her feet. The world spun for a second, but then it settled, and the epicenter of the pain in her body localized in her left ankle. "_Aaahh_—is Hana well?"

The girl in question came up from Aravis's side and took her by the arm. "I'm just fine, Lady Aravis. But let's sit you down and have a look at that ankle while we wait for Rhys, hmm?"

Wordlessly, Aravis agreed, and she lowered herself to the ground again. With gentle but practiced hands, Hana rolled up the hem of her trouser and started to unlace the dirty boot; meanwhile, Aravis assessed the damage done to the corps.

Cor and Corin looked well enough; Cor, who was scowling, had a spectacular black eye, and Corin's knuckles were bloody, but they were standing easily and talking to Darrin, whose face was pale but eyes alert as ever. Nim had a nasty gash along his right forearm, Romith was nursing a broken nose, Dor was missing several teeth, and even Borran was trying to staunch the bleeding from a wound on his chest. Rhys looked just as well as ever, though, and for that Aravis was grateful—tonight, they would need his ministrations more than ever.

"_Ouch_!"

The exclamation was involuntary, and Aravis looked down at her ankle. Hana was giving her a grim expression. "You gave your ankle a pretty nasty turn," she said. "Look at all this swelling already."

"Is it broken?" Aravis asked fearfully.

"No, no, not at all."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's not broken, but sometimes a sharp turn like that can be worse than a break," Hana went on sagely. "I shouldn't wonder if your ankle was turned when your horse fell on it. That might take some time to heal."

"I'll manage," Aravis said bitterly, and began to lace the boot back up.

A sharp peal of laughter, so antagonistic to the current atmosphere, made Aravis turn around. Gyneth, looking as smug and perfect as always, was advancing towards her, laughing heartily and pointing.

"What's so funny?" Aravis asked dryly. "Have you seen your face in a mirror again?"

Gyneth ignored the insult and continued to laugh. "Your back!" she cackled. "Ooooh, how cunning—the barbarian pretending to be a lady!"

Aravis's mouth dropped open: yes, she knew this was what Gyneth thought of her, but to say such a thing in front of the men!

"I say, _look_," Gyneth continued triumphantly, turning and looking at Cor. "Your precious 'Aravis'—if that is truly her name!—bears the marks of a _slave girl_! No true lady would have such scars across her back!"

A ringing silence followed this pronouncement, and Aravis felt the color drain from her face. Almost without realizing it, she reached back and pulled her cloak about her shoulders, trying desperately to hide the marks of shame she had so long concealed.

"Answer for yourself, _imposter_!" Gyneth cried, jabbing a slender finger in Aravis's face.

Oh, how Aravis wished Cor would step in, put Gyneth to right, and send her home. But he and the other men seemed stunned into silence, watching the confrontation with slightly open mouths.

At long last, Aravis stood up, leaving her cloak and the ground and resting her weight on her right foot. She turned around, displaying for all to see the four long, raised, pink scars that arced from her left shoulder to her right hip, where the ragged ends were hidden by the folds of her gown.

"These scars," she said firmly, "were given to me when I was eleven by the Great Lion himself, who took them as recompense for the slave girl that was whipped for me when I fled from my father's house in Calormen."

Silence still reigned, so Aravis picked up her cloak and slipped it over her shoulders as she turned around. Gyneth looked white as a sheet, but she took no pleasure in it. "You are right to say I am hiding something," she said to her. "I am hiding the guilt I will bear for the rest of my life that another human was harmed because of my indiscretions.

"I hope you will bear that in mind," she concluded somewhat triumphantly. "Now—if there are no more questions?"

More silence.

"Very well. Let us go further up the mountain and pitch camp; our horses and ourselves are too taxed to go much longer."

To her surprise, the companions sprang into motion. Rhys bound her ankle with extreme consideration, staunched Romith's nose, bound up Nim and Borran's wounds, and even put a nice little bandage on Inga's raw backside. Dor and Darrin rolled the bodies of the bandits into the woods and covered them with leaves; one of them had left his horse, who made no complaint when Romith got rid of its scarlet decorations and loaded it down with pots and pans instead.

As she sat astride Inga, Aravis tried to look self-assured and complacent, but she had to force back tears as Cor brushed past her over and over again, his mouth shut in a firm, thin line. Not a word? It was as if their childhood had never happened.

But she didn't need him. Aravis looked at all the people bustling about, busily doing as she had asked—and rued the day she set foot outside of Calavar.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_A/N: Sorry for the delay! I contracted food poisoning, then came down with a terrible case of Final Exams. I'm sure y'all can feel my pain (though hopefully not literally!). -Sushi_

_Chapter Fourteen_

When Aravis awoke the next morning, she lay in her bedroll for a few minutes, staring up at the grey canvas ceiling of her tent. The weather was dry, finally, but it was exceedingly cold; the world outside seemed muffled and still. Her body was sore everywhere, and the temptation to bundle up in her wolfskin blanket and go back to sleep was strong, but there were voices outside and the smell of frying cornmeal. She dressed slowly, gingerly pulling a woolen kirtle over her aching shoulders and pulling a boot on over her swollen, bruised ankle and limping out of her tent.

A white, fluffy world greeted her. Darrin waved from his spot near the fire, where someone had pushed most of the heavy, wet snow out of the way so the companions could sit in comfort. "Happy Christmas, milady," he said with a grin.

Aravis lifted the cuffs of her riding trousers free of the snow and picked her way over to the fire. "It's June!" she said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice.

"We are near Narnia," Lord Nim explained, handing her a fried corncake and some dried cherries. "It often snows in the mountains so late in the season."

She nibbled on the cherries, their tart, summery sweetness a stark contrast to her cold and damp surroundings. "Will there be snow at Dorovan Hall?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I should think not," Darrin said, looking at the sky. "We will come down out of the mountains tonight, and Dorovan Hall rests nearly at the base of the foothills."

Hana, who had just joined Aravis and was fiddling anxiously with her corncake, said, "Oh, I _do_ hope we reach it tonight. The thought of those horrid men still out there makes me shiver."

Darrin nodded, but Lord Rhys cut in and said, "I wouldn't worry about those ruffians, my dear. They were common thugs, nothing more." With that, he stood up and went to inspect Romith's nose, as it was still puffy from the night before.

There was silence for a moment; then, Darrin said quietly, "You look troubled, Lady Aravis."

Aravis, who had been lost in thought, looked up and sighed. "Oh. I just think…well, didn't those bandits seem a bit too organized to be common thugs? The kerchiefs, the horses, the sharp, expensive swords…"

Those within earshot of her quiet voice looked thoughtful, and even Cor seemed to be listening intently, though he was doggedly scrubbing the brass of his horse's saddle.

"I've never heard of common thugs being so well-fed or coordinated," Aravis continued. "At the very least, they'd need some system of communication, because they seemed to know exactly where we were, despite the fact that we were traveling on a hidden mountain path and no one was supposed to know. I think—"

Gyneth let out a high laugh, cutting off Aravis's next words. "Do you hear this girl? Conspiracies and intrigue! What will she think of ne—"

"That's _enough_, Gyneth."

Everyone looked up. Cor, the cleaning rag dangling from a white-knuckled fist, had stood up, and his blue eyes were hard and flinty.

"Your Highness," Gyneth giggled, her pretty face going pale, "I was just—"

"Don't you think you've done enough damage already?" Cor interrupted sharply. Gyneth gaped like a fish. "I recommend that you close your mouth, get your horse ready, and let the _lady_ think what she will."

With that, he tossed the cleaning rag at her, turned on his heel, and went into his tent on the other side of camp. Silence reigned. Finally, Gyneth, who had caught the rag with a stricken look, fled to her tent, and the companions presently heard he sounds of angry muffled sobs.

"When will that woman learn to hold her tongue?" Darrin muttered.

"Well, it must be hard to get it between her teeth when it's forked," said Hana brightly.

Aravis couldn't muffle her laugh fast enough.

* * *

The snow melted as the corps picked its way down the mountainside, and Aravis found herself shedding first her cloak, then her kirtle, and soon after lunch she became sorely tempted to remove her shift and chemise and ride bare-chested like the men were starting to. As it was, her bare arms were covered with a sheen of sweat, broken only partly from the exertion of staying astride the saddle as Inga went gingerly down rocky and somewhat slippery paths; just a few days on the northern side of the Archen Mountains had made her forget was an Archen summer could feel like. It did not have any of the delicious dryness that Calormen had, where she could sit with her face to the sun and practically feel her skin tightening and darkening in response. No; Archenland's heat was a thick, wet one, with the worst days coming in July with heavy rains and mugginess that made her feel like she was drowning in the very air she breathed.

Glumly, she realized that, at the rate they were going, they would be in eastern Archenland by late July, just in time to wait out the rain season in Roscommon Castle, a fortress on the shores of the Eastern Ocean whose mighty winds would bring the full fury of the rain season upon their heads.

She sighed just as Cor and Corin ahead of her drank deeply from their water skins and, dashing a few drops on their red faces, draped their reins over their saddle horns so they could remove their sweat-soaked tunics. In mere moments, Aravis was confronted by the sight of two sets of broad, sturdy, and very freckled shoulders. She studied them pensively, reflecting on the fact that she could tell the twins apart even from the back: Corin was stockier and had more brawn to his arms, and Cor was taller, thinner, and the smooth, healthy skin of his back bore faint pink dents, the only physical evidence that Arsheesh had ever existed.

He'd also lost weight, Aravis noticed vaguely, but in a good way. The last time she'd seen him bare-chested was several months before she had left for Calavar a good year ago; Cor had leaned across her desk to show her something and absentmindedly dipped his tunic in her sealing-wax candle. (That also happened to be the fastest she'd ever seen him move.) He had a scholar's body then, she remembered; still boyish, pale as parchment, and with freckles as numerous as the stars in the night sky.

"What a difference a year makes," she mused aloud.

"What?" asked Hana.

"Oh, nothing."

The day dragged on as the companions made their way down into the valley. Summer was here in earnest, the setting sun shining on bright green trees and patches of purple heather. Inga stopped to tear up a few huge mouthfuls of the tender shoots of new grass, and Aravis couldn't bring herself to rein her in.

Suddenly, Darrin called out. "Dorovan Hall, straight ahead!"

Aravis shaded her eyes and saw, nestled into the folds of two arching hills, was a beautiful, expansive manor house of a rather recent design, much homier and more appealing than the cold stone fortresses of the south and west. One of the hills had a ruin on it, a fading remnant of the days when the First Men set up a government in the southern wilds and trusted no one, not even their peaceful Narnian neighbors.

"The royal banner has been run up," Corin crowed. "There'll be a hot meal and soft beds for us tonight, and no one to drag us from them!"

No one cheered—they were all too noble and overheated for that—but the men all put their tunics back on, applied their spurs to the sides of their horses, and the company thundered across the rolling heathered meadows and pounded onto a gravelly path, the sweet valley air coursing through their hair as they neared the cozily resplendent front courtyard of the manor house.

It all seemed too good to be true, and Aravis held her breath as they reined their horses up near a bubbling fountain.

"Welcome, my dear friends, welcome!"

The salutation came ringing from the front entrance, and they all turned to see a smiling woman in a yellow silk gown come down the steps from the house, her arms thrown wide in greeting.

"Hello, Your Majesty," Cor and Corin said in unison, grinning as they went to shake her hand.

"None of that, now," the woman said, laughing. "This is _your_ kingdom! Call me Lady Pevensie, if you absolutely _must _use titles. Come, now—Erimon and Beorn are absolutely dying to see all of you."

"First," said Cor, "I should introduce you to those you don't know."

"Of course!" the woman said. "How silly of me. Do go on."

"You remember Lord Darrin and Lord Nim, but this is Sir Borran the Voyagemaker, Lord Rhys the Herbalist, Romith, and Dor. And these ladies are the maids Gyneth of Gittensreeve, Hana of Wolfdell, and the Lady Aravis, Tarkheena of Calavar."

"Ah!" said the woman. "You are 'the' Aravis! Forgive me, but I have heard so much about you, I feel as though I know you."

Aravis smiled politely and curtsied, feeling particularly conscious of her bare arms and sweat-drenched shift.

"You must call me Arrania," the woman continued. "And try not to feel too awkward for not recognizing me from court—I have lived in Narnia for the past seven years."

As she spoke, the pieces began to fall together in Aravis's mind, and she nearly let a gasp escape. _This_ was the queen of Narnia! The daughter of one of Lune's emissaries, she had married King Edmund and borne him two sons; rumor had it that she nearly went mad when the four kings and queens were lost to the Wilds. For some reason, Aravis had always imagined her as being quite old—but Aravis couldn't have been more than five years younger than she.

She smiled again, this time genuinely, and said, "It is a pleasure, Lady Arrania."

Arrania beamed and said, "Come, now! My people will take your things to your chambers, and you must come straight in to dinner. No, don't worry about your clothes! You must be famished."

She ushered them in. Hana stuck close by Aravis's side, looking rather nervously about her at the reserved finery of the front hall. Arrania did not seem to think much of the fact that Gyneth and Hana had hardly seen such a house before; she led them right to the dining room, rather large and open for a manor of such size. Already seated at the long carved table were two small boys, no older than five, who looked as though they could hardly stay in their seats.

"Say hello to the princes, boys," Arrania said, going over and giving them kisses on their dark heads.

"Hello," said the oldest one shyly, looking through his lashes with dark blue eyes. Those eyes traveled over the companions' dirty cloaks and assorted injuries, stopping quite obviously on the long, sweat-stained swords most of them still wore at their hips. Aravis knew enough about little boys to know that they could hardly contain their glee at the sight of real warriors.

"What is the news from Anvard?" Cor asked as soon as they were all seated (the boys insisted that he and Corin sit between them).

"Your royal father has been complaining of gout again," Arrania said as the first course, a simple one of nutty breads and thick soup, was set in front of them. "I have a whole sack of letters and packages for you all, so you will have that as soon as you've had a chance to eat. But no, very little important news from the capital, at least that I know of. Most of the rumors and rumblings seem to be coming from the west."

"Oh?" said Darrin.

"Yes, indeed. Word has it that the western tribes are on the move. It has been a dry year, so they are moving eastward."

"Of course," said Rhys. "What with the Narnian rulers dropping off the face of the world and leaving the government in tatters—oh, I mean, er…yes. I do understand."

Aravis had seen the welcoming, cheerful expression on the former queen's face disappear for an instant, replaced by a hollow, lifeless look that made her look ages older than she was. The next second, the smile was back, and Arrania had turned back to Cor. "That's not all, Your Highness."

"Do go on."

"My father's brother is a marcherlord in the northwest, and he has heard whispers of the Old Ones on the move again."

"Well, that should be of no surprise," Nim said mildly. "The Old Ones have been awake in Narnia for some time now, haven't they?"

Arrania smiled. "You think of the Deep Magic and the Talking Beasts, my lord. No, the Old Ones are those creatures even we only read about. Trolls, my friends, and harpies."

"That's not _so_ bad," Rhys said, his confident words no match for his white knuckles. "We know how to fight trolls, and harpies are no threat now that we have longbows."

"Perhaps not," Arrania conceded. "But what about dragons?"

An involuntary shiver ran down Aravis's back, and she was not the only one. "Dragons?" Darrin breathed. "But how can we be sure? They have been dormant or dead these past five hundred years!"

"They are awake," Arrania insisted, pouring herself more mead. "They are few in number, to be sure, and not as clever or large as they were in the days of our forefathers, but awake nonetheless. The scrub farmers in the western reaches are fleeing south and east, their herds burnt and consumed by the beasts."

Cor tossed his napkin onto the table, looking very grim. "This is troubling news. My dear lady, I wonder if my father has sent word to this regard."

"Of course, Your Highness! You must all desperately want your letters." She motioned to a footman, who hurried from the room. "Please, open them right away and continue to eat."

The man came back, bearing a large sack over his shoulder and looking rather like what the Narnians had told Aravis of Father Christmas. He set it on the ground, opened it, and began pulling out letters and packages and handing them to their addressee. Aravis found it necessary to sit on her hands; else, she would have flown across the room and clawed her way through the sack herself.

"The Lady Aravis Tarkheena," was the next name he called, and scarce had Darrin passed her the thick letter than she was tearing the seal and looking on the written word for the first time in what seemed like years.

_'My dear Lady Aravis,_' it read in King Lune's thick handwriting.

'_I hope this letter finds you in good health. If you are reading this, you have arrived safely at Dorovan Hall, and the mountains have proved laughable to your indomitable spirit._

_'Cor hasn't been a terrible bother to you, I do hope—he has improved much in the ten months you were in Calormen, but he is still my son, and for that I do apologize. I also eagerly await the first news of a potential bride for him: mark you well that she be not only fit to be a queen, but fit to be Cor's mate. 'Tis nothing unhappier than an unwanted royal marriage._

_'I also hope you have come across my other son. We got wind of his defection about a day after you left—it seems that he told his tutor that he had been called to our southern hunting lodge, and it was quite a while before anyone saw fit to inform me that he was not actually there. In the understanding that this letter is quite confidential, my dear girl, I give you permission to box his ears._

_'Talk of my sons has given me occasion to mention one other point. It was not merely to assist Cor that I sent you along on this journey—I'm sure your esteemed father would have had my hide if it had. No; I did it in the hopes that you, in your many voyagings across this great land of ours, would find yourself a suitable mate, as well. It is my dearest wish to see all my dear young ones happily situated before I join my fathers in the Lion's hunting hall._

_'Ah! I see my parchment is failing me._

_'Farewell, and best of luck and health,_

_'L.'_

"Oh, that's really insufferable," Aravis said aloud, too distracted to pay much attention to the package Darrin handed her.

"What is?" Darrin asked.

She tsked in annoyance. "The king has now told _me_ I must marry. Really!"

"He said that?" Corinsaid, looking bewildered.

"Well, no, he didn't _command_ it, but it's highly recommended." She heaved a sigh. "_Really_."

"If the prospect of finding a husband seems daunting, my lady," Darrin said lightly, "I'm sure you and I might come to a satisfactory arrangement."

Aravis waved her hand, already reaching for the package. "Oh, don't be silly, Darrin; I wouldn't make you do that."

Inside the package was a pair of soft leather gloves, lined on the inside with thick, warm lambswool and finished with pretty embroidery up the wrist. The note was a brief treatise on staying modest and feminine despite the elements, and Aravis had a reflexive urge to throw it in the fire, but it was signed by all her ladies-in-waiting and included a fervent wish for her safe and healthy return, and she suddenly found herself a bit homesick for their lighthearted chatter and constant companionship.

To rid herself of the disturbing emotion, Aravis reached for her last letter. It very thick, and when she opened it, out fell two letters, both addressed to her at Anvard and bearing her father's seal.

She opened the dirtiest one first.

'_To the esteemed lady Aravis Tarkheena of Calavar, lady of Anvard, daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, descended in a right line from the god Tash,_

_'Parvin Tarkheena of Calavar, wife of Kidrash Tarkaan, daughter of Drashtar Tarkaan, writes to her most esteemed stepdaughter at the behest of her husband, the illustrious Kidrash._

_'His Eminence the Tarkaan, obeying the will of the god Tash, fell ill on the 2__nd__ day of May of this year. He requests the audience of his most esteemed daughter, to whom he gave life and status._

_'In the highest name of the god Tash, and by permission of the Tisroc, may he live forever,_

_'The author will always be,_

_'Parvin Tarkheena of Calavar, wife of Kidrash Tarkaan, daughter of Drashtar Tarkaan.'_

Aravis noted the date—almost two months ago—and tore open the second letter, her heart settling in her throat.

'_To my sister, the esteemed lady Aravis Tarkheena of Calavar, lady of Anvard, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, descended in a right line from the god Tash,_

_'I, Bindar, now Tarkaan of Calavar, only son of Kidrash Tarkaan, write to my most esteemed sister as required by the estate of our late father, Kidrash Tarkaan._

_'Our father obeyed the will of the great god Tash and followed him unto the afterlife on May 30 of this year. Per the law of the Tisroc, may he live forever, I am now Tarkaan of Calavar. _

_'I write to inform you that your title and dowry are untouchable by the law of the Tisroc, may he live forever. As I, your honored brother, am near the age of majority, I require none of your assistance in matters of household or finance, should you feel compelled to offer it. In return, I extend an invitation to you to return to the house of your birth at any time while I am Tarkaan, provided you inform my steward prior to your departure._

_'In the highest name of the god Tash, and by permission of the Tisroc, may he live forever, _

_'I, your esteemed brother, will always be,_

_'Bindar Tarkaan of Calavar, son of Kidrash Tarkaan, son of Rishti Tarkaan, son of Kidrash Tarkaan, son of Illsombreh Tisroc, son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was desceneded in a right line from the god Tash.'_

Aravis continued to stare at the paper for a moment, struggling to comprehend the words. _Dead?_ But Father had been in perfect health when she left Calavar—aging, yes, and somewhat less of his old self, but his old self nonetheless. Yet here she sat, reading her young brother's stilted letter and picturing him thrust into the role of Tarkaan before his time.

"My lady, are you quite well?"

Darrin's voice in her ear made her jump, and she folded the letter and tossed it onto the table. "Yes. Perfectly well. Erm, Your Ladyship, I'm afraid I find myself quite overwhelmed by your hospitality. Would you be terribly offended if I retire for the evening?"

Arrania stood, and everyone else leapt to their feet. "Of course not, Lady Aravis. It was unkind of me to keep you up so late. Please, make good use of your bedchamber, and do not trouble yourself on my behalf."

Aravis nodded and scooped up her things, fleeing the dining room before anyone could stop her.

A maidservant brought her to her bedchamber; the setting sun had brought a cool breeze through the valley, so a small fire had been lit in the hearth, ad the fresh linens on the bed turned down. Aravis nudged the door shut, and it bounced off the frame, but she took no notice and dumped the two letters and the gloves onto a chair.

Sudden exhaustion settled on her shoulders as she sat down on the edge of the soft bed and sank down with her cheek on a feather pillow. Father—dead? They had never been close; he had, after all, practically sold her to Ahoshta Tarkaan to pay off some gambling debts. (She shuddered at the thought—she tried to think of her life before running away as rarely as possible.) But still. He had been the one constant in her life, a continual source of gruff unpleasantness and unsolicited advice.

Besides, he couldn't have been all that bad, she reasoned drowsily. After all, he argued very little when Lune took her on as lady of Anvard, and he asked her only twice to marry Cor to make it all worthwhile.

And so, Aravis drifted off to sleep, feeling sad and truly homesick for the first time in her life.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_A/N: Hey, sorry this took so long! First I moved home from uni, and then I had writer's block, and then my family announced that we're moving 16 hours away, and then I had writer's block again. Thanks so much for your patience! -Sushi_

_Chapter Fifteen_

It was nearly noon by the time Aravis had woken, bathed, dressed, and limped downstairs for a light brunch. She had slept painfully the night before, her slumber plagued by half-awake dreams that her father was in her room, introducing her to the Tisroc, and Cor was holding a mirror that kept shattering and repairing itself. By the time she finally slipped into real sleep, the morning birds were already chirping in the trees outside her window.

Darrin pulled a chair out for her to sit down at the table, but before she could go to it, Cor caught her arm and pulled her back out into the entry hall. "Let go of me," she spat, wrenching herself from his grip.

"Aravis," he said firmly, and waved something in her face.

She was so annoyed she could hardly focus, but the sight of her brother's seal made her take a second look. "_Where did you get this_?" she hissed, snatching the letter from his grasp. "How—how dare y—"

"You left it on the table last night," Cor said over her sputtering. "It got mixed up in my papers, and I read it, thinking it was for me."

"You had no right," Aravis answered. She folded the letter, crumpling it a bit in her anger, and shoved it unceremoniously into her bodice.

"Aravis. Stop it. Your father's _dead_, don't you think you should—"

"I am not bothered in the least. Don't you have a milkmaid you should be trying to make queen?"

The slight didn't even make him blink, but he answered, "Aravis, if you want to go back to Calavar—"

"Ah!" she answered coldly. "There we have it. A convenient excuse to get rid of me. Well, I'm staying! I promised the king I wouldn't let you make any stupid decisions. I have obviously failed in that mission, but at least I can make you regret the ones you have made."

Cor's blue eyes smoldered, and he said in a snappish tone, "Yes—one of those stupid decisions was having you along in the first place."

Aravis turned on her heel and marched into the dining room and sat with immense dignity in the seat that still waited for her at Darrin's side. He passed her a platter of summer fruits and soft bread and cheese, speaking to her in a pleasant voice, but she scarcely heard him; in an odd reversal of the usual circumstances, her body felt clean and presentable, but her gut was twisted and dirty with anger.

When the meal was over, Borran spoke up. "Your ladyship, I have been musing on the news you gave us last night—about the Old Ones."

"Yes, of course," said Arrania, who was dandling the youngest boy on her knee and helping him eat oatmeal.

"If what you say is true," Borran went on, his gravelly voice commanding the attention of the entire table, "why have we heard nothing of it before now?"

"Well, the common folk are not expected to know much of Archenland's history, no?" Arrania answered. "We leave that to the scholars in their towers. Even you, good Sir Borran—do _you _know the Old Lore?"

The grizzled older man looked impassively at the babe in Arrania's lap, even as he said, "No, my lady, I do not."

"Just so. For all we know, the signs of awakening Old Ones have been cropping up for a year—it took someone familiar with the Lore to finally spot them and send word to the marcher lords."

"What is the Lore?" Aravis asked Darrin in an undertone. The last thing she wanted to seem at this moment was ignorant. Yes, she had been tutored by the finest minds in both Calormen and Archenland, but there were things she knew those finest minds had held back.

Darrin opened his mouth to answer, but Arrania set her boy down on his feet and said to a nearby footman, "Tern, would you fetch us my father's copy of the Lore? I myself have only looked through it briefly," she admitted as the man bowed and left the room. "But from what I can tell, it is as near as we've got to a compendium of information about the Old Ones."

"Myths and fairytales," Rhys sighed. "With all due respect, my lady."

"Myths and fairytales they may be," Arrania said without blinking an eyelash, "but important all the same. For generations, Archenlanders have been raising their children to think of dragons as scary stories, nothing more. Now they are coming back. How do we fight them if we don't even know what they look like?"

Her words made the hair on the back of Aravis's neck stand up, and she took a calming swig of her mulled wine before saying, "What are the signs that have been recognized?"

"Ah, yes," Arrania said, and everyone around the table sat up and took notice. "My uncle tells me of things and people going missing—strange disappearances of livestock, whole families, even a patrol of the Marcher Watch. Their horses and equipment are nowhere to be found."

"Couldn't this all be blamed on the encroaching western tribes?" Rhys asked, stifling a yawn. Aravis found herself wanting to hurl the heavy tankard in her hand at the man's face.

"It could," Arrania admitted. "But the westerners have never been ones for secrecy—they would be proud of their raiding, especially their capturing the Marcher Watch. They bear little love for the Watch's men, but they would be parading the men's heads around on pikes by now."

The bread and cheese turned over in Aravis's stomach, but before she had a chance to react, the footman returned to the dining room with a dusty, leather-bound volume under his arm. "Ah," said the former queen, "here it is. Gentlemen and ladies, the Old Lore."

Aravis busied her hands with a piece of melon as Arrania paged delicately through the book, occasionally pausing to run a long finger down a passage. After what seemed like hours, she finally said, "Ah—here, we are. 'Draconika. A serpentine beast native to the far reaches of the northern realms.'" She licked a finger and turned the page. "'These northern dragons, distinguished from their lesser cousins the Great Naga and the common crocodile, are to be much feared. If unhindered by lack of food, sword, or captivity, northern dragons have been known to grow to a length of thirty _ferth_s, with unproven reports of dragons swallowing entire brigades of mounted horse coming from far northeastern histories.'"

At this, the youngest boy began to whimper, and the former queen paused to kiss his head and send him off with a nursemaid. "'The beasts are sheathed in thick scales from snout to tale,'" she went on, "'their colors ranging from inkiest black to shimmering pale red. Four short legs sprout long talons, used for tearing prey, and the tail is itself barbed in similar horns. Wings stretching the width of the mighty Archen River are thick but vulnerable to arrows.'"

She yawned a bit. "Here the writer plunges into a detailed account of the rise of dragons in the time of the First Men…and a story of how Olvin the Fair slew one that threatened to burn the fortress Anva to the ground—Anva later became Anvard, of course."

"This is all well and good, Your Ladyship," Darrin broke in, "but what of the beasts' habits? What do they hunt? _How do we fight them_?"

Arrania gave him a helpless look and paged through the thick tome. "If I had the time, Lord Darrin, I would gladly read until my eyes ached and my throat burned. But this book is the result of thousands of years of learning—there are hundreds of pages in the Lore, nearly half of which are concerned with dragons."

Darrin sat back, frustrated, and the men muttered to themselves.

"The best I can do," the former queen said above them, "is tell you what my lord uncle told me. He said that the dragons appear to be small—no one of note has seen them in flight, and they only attack scattered livestock and small villages."

"How far east have they come?" Cor asked.

"No further than the easternmost reaches of the marcherlords' lands as yet, Your Highness," she answered him. "But you can be sure that—"

"With all due respect, Your Grace," said Rhys, standing suddenly, "clearly the supposed awakening of the Old Ones are the current responsibility of the western lords, not His Royal Highness. We waste precious daylight—we must reach the Eastern Ocean by the rainy season."

Aravis saw Arrania's mouth tighten, but the woman said graciously, "Of course. I understand, Lord Rhys, and I do apologize. I hope you all will feel no qualms in taking what you need from my stores, as you certainly need them more than I do."

"We will take what we absolutely require," Cor cut across Rhys's response, "and no more. Thank you for your generosity. It will not be forgotten."

Arrania smiled briefly. "I will call for your horses to be groomed and saddled for you."

Cor and Corin bowed, and just like that, the conference was over. Aravis and Hana climbed the stairs to their chambers side by side, both mulling silently over the conversation until Hana said timidly, "Do you really think the Old Ones are waking, Lady Aravis?"

Aravis sighed. "I wouldn't know. Would that I could read the Lore Her Highness was talking about, though—I know so little about dragons I wonder if I would know if one bit my own leg off."

"My father used to tell me about his great-grandfather being a knight," Hana mused aloud. "He said he once fought a dragon—that they're like great snakes with fearsome talons and wings like bats. They breathe _fire_, he said."

"So the children's stories go." Aravis pressed her hand against the smooth oak of her chamber door. "I wonder if the Lore can be found elsewhere."

As she packed, Aravis turned the news over and over in her mind. When she was a child in Calavar, her nursemaid, a lowborn Calormene woman of dusky skin, would tell her tales of the fearsome years before the days of the Tisroc. Great winged serpents would descend from the skies, she said, and swallow villages whole, leaving nothing but charred cellars behind.

She shuddered a bit and buckled her sword at her hip before swinging her satchel over one shoulder and making her way down the stairs again. Most of the men were out in the courtyard already, buckling their weapons onto their saddles and checking the lengths of their stirrups. Inga snorted as Aravis came near, but her ears were pricked forward and she grudgingly accepted an offering of sugar from Aravis's palm.

"Did they take good care of you, you old nag?" Aravis asked, running a hand down the animal's neck. Inga's dusty coat was back to its beautiful misty grey coloring—clearly, one of the grooms had washed her thoroughly and even patched up the wounds the bandit-who-was-not-a-bandit had left on her rump. "It's better than you deserve, surely," Aravis said almost affectionately as she strapped her satchel to the saddle.

Inga's head whipped around and she tried to take a bite out of Aravis's elbow, but she shoved her away and mounted up. "We're in the meadowlands now, you old swayback. You'll work for your fodder from now on."

"Lady Aravis."

Aravis looked down. The lady Arrania was approaching her, a crimson-wrapped package under her arm. "Your ladyship. I thank you for your hospitality—I haven't felt so clean nor eaten so well since we left Anvard."

Arrania smiled. "I accept your thanks. But here, before I am scolded for keeping you too long again." The woman held out the package.

At first, the crimson color made Aravis think of the bandits, and her heart began to pound, but when she took the package, she saw it was sewn together with cloth-of-gold. "The Narnia colors, my lady," she observed, running her finger over the fine fabric. _But faded._

"Yes," Arrania said with a sad smile. "Narnian colors. But do go on."

Aravis gently unwrapped the covering. "Oh, Lady Arrania, I couldn't—"

"Do take it," Arrania replied. "The men didn't listen to me, as I am well used to. But _you_ might. Read the Lore, Lady Aravis, and prepare them."

Aravis nodded fervently, stroking the thick leather cover of the Old Lore. "You have my word. And I shall be sure to take it to heart, and also return to it to you unharmed when this year is done." _The sooner the better._

But Arrania was gazing at the crimson-and-gold wrapping, a wistful look on her face. "A parting word of advice to you, young Aravis?"

"Any you can give me, Your Majesty."

"Never marry a king." Arrania smiled, patted her hand, and stepped back. Aravis thought about pressing her for details, but then she realized she knew all she needed to. With a thankful smile, then, she wrapped the book back up and wedged it carefully next to Cor's book of fairytales.

"Any last words of advice for our travels?" Cor asked as Dor, the last of them, swung up on his horse.

"The town of Dormotte is a day's ride from here," Arrania called to all of them. "It is a friendly place, liege to the Dorovans, but the mayor is hosting a tourney in two days' time. I would recommend giving the town a wide berth if you wish to travel quickly."

"And if we don't?" Darrin called, his face alight with excitement. The men laughed, nodding at each other, and Aravis knew they would soon be in Dormotte.

Arrania only smiled, and Darrin took out the hunting horn he was said to have used at the battle of Anvard. _AROOOOoooo, aROOOOooooo_, it went, the sound echoing off the distant hills, and Inga tossed her head and pawed the ground, impatient to get on.

Finally, with a wave and another blow of the horn, Corn spun his big gelding around and spurred him from the courtyard, and the rest of the company followed close behind. When Aravis turned around to wave, the lady Arrania had already gone inside, and so she turned her face to the east.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_Chapter Sixteen_

The valley at the base of the northern mountains had received the same amount of rain over the past few days as the mountains themselves, the companions soon learned. The road to Dormotte, now thick black mud, sucked at their horses' hooves and splattered up onto the faces of the riders in the rear, and the sun, now high in the sky, did little to dry it up.

Nevertheless, Aravis, cradling the volume carefully in one hand and knotting Inga's reins in the other, began to read the Old Lore of Archenland. In the interest of time, she decided to begin from the section regarding dragons and other Old Ones, as it seemed most pressing. The script was small and cramped, the ink beginning to fade, but the illustrations…! She sucked in her breath at one: it was a two-page drawing of a knight battling a dragon, and the dragon's scales and the knight's silver armor seemed to glimmer in the dappled sunlight that moved across the paper.

Her delight in the beauty of the work nestled in her arm was short-lived, however. Aravis had never been one to fear mystic beasts—even the bird-god Tash had held no deep-seated dread for her as a child—but the writer's dire words struck a knot in the pit of her stomach. '_Dragons old enough to take flight favor the aerial mode of attack_,' she read, '_preferring to streak down out of a cloudless sky and take their unsuspecting prey by surprise_.' She glanced up at the sky. '_Their flight is generally soundless, and the massive beasts are capable of striking with absolute silence; some accounts describe nighttime dragon attacks going completely unnoticed until daylight. Such occurrences indicate that dragons are somewhat sentient creatures, capable of subterfuge and deceit. _

_'This is not to say that dragons are alike to the basilisk of common legend, silent and unseen in all its doings. Dragons at their most recognizable employ the use of fireblowing, a trait possessed by no other known being. When feeding in safety, being attacked, or wishing to subdue or herd prey, a dragon is capable of firing shoots of blue or orange flame from the back of its throat with deadly accuracy. Silent flaming is possible, but most dragons emit a frightful roar when blowing fire, described by many eyewitnesses as being a combination of lion's roar and wolf's howl.'_

Aravis swallowed hard. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was a dragon hovering just out of the corner of her eye.

'_Young or undersized dragons prefer lone prey, picking off livestock one or two at a time. When food is scarce, however, Man is dragon's prey; they are known to descend on small villages or hovels and swallow entire cottages at once, belching up the contents later to flame properly and consume again.'_

"Reading stories of beasties, my lady?"

Darrin's voice made Aravis jump, and she slammed the volume closed as Inga snorted and danced. "Oh—oh, yes, Lord Darrin, quite."

He brought his big grey up alongside of Inga, laughing. "Really, Lady Aravis, I don't know why you're troubling yourself with this book. The Old Lore—'lore' is another word for 'myth,' you know."

"I _do_ know what 'lore' means."

Darrin missed the coolness in her voice and settled deeper into his saddle. "Perhaps her ladyship was right in reporting rumors of dragons to us, and I agree that we should be on the lookout. But what you will learn by reading a dusty old tome of children's stories, I do not know."

"More than you, surely," Aravis retorted. "You might be the Strongarm, but all that will be quite useless when faced with an enemy you've never even read about."

"Has that old book told you where a dragon's weaknesses are?" Darrin asked, his voice light but his questions pointed. "Or how to kill one? Or the best weapons to use against one?"

"Not yet," she had to admit, "but I've only been reading for a few hours—"

"When you have learned those things," Darrin replied gently, "_then_ you may presume to educate us. Not before. Your youth makes you forget, my dear lady, how much more experienced we are than you."

"Not Cor or Corin, surely!" Aravis said, stung.

Darrin laughed. "I would not presume to say so, no. No—this experience comes with age—and several of us have more of it than we would like to admit."

"How old are you, anyway?" Aravis asked.

"Older than you."

"How _much_ older than me?"

"Old enough."

"Are you fifty, then?"

The look on his face was well worth it. "_Fifty_? I am wounded, Lady Aravis, deeply and mortally. To think, Darrin Strongarm, _fifty years of age_. Hardly—I am eight-and-thirty."

"You were a knight before I was even born," Aravis said, marveling at the difference. Of course, it made sense—he was a statesman already when she came to Anvard so many years ago, and he had been basking in the glory of the battle he'd helped win—a magnificent knight, too tall to notice her as they passed in a corridor once.

"Barely a knight, surely," he protested.

"I am not even nineteen yet, Lord Darrin," she laughed. "I heard His Majesty tell the Narnian ambassador that you were knighted at eighteen!"

"So I was," Darrin replied. "The youngest lord ever to receive a knighthood, to be exact. I hope you won't let it bother you, though."

"What?"

"My age." He said it casually enough, looking fixedly ahead and ducking a branch that was nowhere near striking distance of his head, but Aravis could see the flush creeping up on his craggy, freshly-shaven cheeks.

"Hardly," she laughed again. "Age is the last thing I consider when making friends."

"I wonder, sometimes, if I am overstretching my years," he replied softly, and Aravis suddenly realized that he was confiding something to her. "I will be nine-and-thirty this July, and I spend scarce a month out of every year in Boldenhal. A man my age should be raising his heirs and preparing his estate, not tourneying and gallivanting about with men half his age like a common outlaw."

Aravis was surprised by the bitterness in his voice; Lord Darrin had always seemed to her a man supremely unconcerned with his circumstances. Uncertain about how to answer, she adjusted her seat in Inga's saddle and cleared her throat. "I wouldn't call it 'gallivanting,' for a start," she said slowly. "You're providing much-needed guidance for a young prince who, quite frankly, has no idea what he's doing. Archenland will thank you someday."

Darrin smiled briefly at her, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you for your kind words, Lady Aravis."

He was not satisfied by them, though, was the unspoken sentiment. She cleared her throat again, feeling highly uncomfortable and wishing with all her heart that they could go back to talking about dragons. "As for the question of heirs, you are not a woman, Lord Darrin. Your fertile years are not near their close—you still have time to marry and sire sons."

"To do so, I must force myself upon some maiden who dreamt of a handsome young knight, not a craggy old warrior like myself."

She sighed. "You're being ridiculous, Darrin. You're still strong and handsome, and given a sword, I'll wager you could beat any of those foppish young knights with one hand tied behind your back."

He had to laugh at this, and Aravis breathed a noiseless sigh of relief. "In fact, you self-absorbed old bear, I'm quite surprised you haven't been snatched up already. If you were a tarkaan, you would have no lack of willing maidens to be your tarkheena, to be sure."

She had thought (_hoped_) that this would make him laugh again, but instead, the smile slid off his face and he said very quietly, "I was married once, a long time ago."

The simple statement sparked a hundred thousand questions in Aravis's mind, but before she could think of which to ask first, Cor's voice came from the front of the caravan. "Darrin, if you don't mind, could I have you up front? Lord Nim and I are having a small disagreement we need you to decide."

Darrin gave her an apologetic grimace and, kicking his gelding's sides, left her to her biting curiosity.

Not that there was much to arrest her attention, either. The men were ecstatic about the idea of a tourney, and the conversation that afternoon was dominated by their masculine boastings and tale-tellings and gruff declarations of honor. Aravis couldn't blame them, of course—all save Romith and Dor had been trained in the art of swordplay, and she understood if they missed the action—but after a few hours, their chattering became irritating, and several times, Aravis considered entering the conversation with the story of how she had beaten Cor so soundly in a melee that Armsmaster Ongli had given her both a heavier broadsword and a bulky shield—and then she had _still_ beaten Cor until he begged for mercy. Oh, how she relished the memory of his bright blue eyes staring up at her from his freckled face, red and running with sweat and a bit of blood, as she stood with her foot upon his chest and the tip of her dulled sword at the base of his throat. "I yield!" he had squeaked, flinging his arms out in a gesture of submission.

But, as upset as she was with Prince Ass, she could see no good reason to humiliate him so by telling that story to his men, and so she kept her mouth shut.

At long last, it came time to make camp. It was fairly dry now, and the setting of the sun had cooled the air to a comfortable temperature, so they spread their bedrolls out together near the fire, where Romith had put a kettle of rabbit stew and a jar of mulled wine to simmer for dinner. While they waited for the food to cook, the menfolk took out their swords and shields and shirts of mail and set about cleaning them with scraps of flannel and small jars of oil. Gyneth, complaining of a headache, was already in her bedroll, so Hana and Aravis sat together in companionable silence, cleaning the day's equipment.

"You've been very quiet today, Lady Aravis," Nim said during a lull in the men's conversation.

Aravis smiled, scraping the mud from Inga's saddle. "I wouldn't wish to interrupt your tourney-talk."

There was a general noise of disapproval, and Corin said loudly, "Oh, don't be a clod. Here, pass me your sword and I'll clean it up for you."

"You don't have to—"

Corin motioned for it, so Aravis got up and handed the sword over to him, scabbard and all. "She may look small, gentlemen," he said, "but Lady Aravis is no prancing palace lady when it comes to fighting."

"I would hope I am not one in _any_ case," Aravis said dryly, trying to ignore how Cor had pointedly touched the thin scab on his throat.

Darrin was leaning over to inspect the blade as Corin drew it out. "It is an uncommon sword, to be sure. Not quite a claymore, but rather more than a bastard sword."

"Rather," Corin said as he oiled the steel. Aravis hoped none of the men had seen the water spots and bits of leaf on it—she had never been one for blade maintenance. "Aravis is too advanced for a mere bastard sword, but Anvard's claymores were too big for her. Isn't that so, Aravis?"

"Too long, to be exact," Aravis admitted. "I could lift one, but when put around my waist, the tip nearly dragged in the dirt."

The men had a good-natured laugh at this, and Corin lifted the small weapon to inspect it in the fire. "Too bad you're a woman," he said offhandedly. "Otherwise you could enter the lists, too."

There was a time when Aravis would have jumped at such a chance, but she only smiled and said, "I wouldn't wish to put any of you to shame."

They laughed again, and as Corin handed her clean sword back, she asked, "Speaking of the lists, who is going to participate in tomorrow's tourney?"

"I am," said Darrin, Cor, Corin, Rhys, and Borran in unison.

Aravis looked between the five of them, hoping that they would start laughing and admit to their little joke, but they only looked back at her with anticipation. "Really?" she said at last. "_All_ of you?"

The men nodded.

"And you see nothing wrong with this?" she asked Darrin.

"Why should I, my lady?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

At a loss, Aravis turned to Hana, who had been watching silently. "Hana, do _you_ see a problem with this?"

Hana paled a little bit as everyone's eyes turned to her, but she swallowed and said, "Well, forgive my impudence, but…I think…well, it seems to me a bit unwise to have…to have _all_ our fighting men in the same tournament. W-what if something were to go wrong, a-and…and you were injured somehow? Who would protect us? …And what if both Their Royal Highnesses were desperately hurt or even k-killed?"

Aravis looked back at the men. "Hana speaks wisdom. His Majesty the king never allowed both his royal sons to participate in tourneys at the same time, and he would certainly never approve of you all putting the health and safety of _both_ his heirs at risk."

"I will not have you ordering me about, Lady Aravis," Cor said coldly. The ice in his tone should not have wounded her as deeply as it did, but she only blinked and turned away.

"Perhaps not," Darrin said slowly, "but Your Highness, you must surely see the reason in what she and Hana say."

Corin threw another log onto the fire. "All who say Lord Darrin and I should be the only ones to compete, say 'aye'."

"It doesn't work like that, Corin," Cor said crossly, but Rhys cleared his throat as Romith began to pass out bowls of hot stew.

"I agree with Corin, Your Royal Highness," he said deferentially. "Both your royal brother and Lord Darrin are both excellent warriors, though not as good as yourself, and they would surely be willing to use their winnings to purchase the supplies we will need after the rainy season. I feel as though I speak for both myself and Sir Borran when I say we will happily defer to them."

Cor looked at Corin and Darrin, who both nodded. Aravis could see he was warring within himself—he had never before won a tourney, something that had grieved him deeply since he had become old enough to enter the lists. Corin, on the other hand, was a master tourneyer, with near dozens of titles under his belt and enough ladies' handkerchiefs to make a quilt. However, she could guess how sorely he was out of practice, and the swelling in his eye from the bandit attack had not gone completely down. The companions could very well use whatever money Corin or Darrin might bring in—they had brought along very few sets of winter clothing, and would need to purchase new wardrobes before autumn.

At long last, he said, "Very well. My royal brother and Lord Darrin may enter the lists."

Corin's triumphant expression was not lost on any of them, and Cor turned away abruptly, feigning sudden interest in the hem of his blankets.

"You have been reading about the dragons, Lady Aravis," Darrin said suddenly in an obvious ploy to change the subject. "Do tell us what you have learned."

She sighed, contemplating a spoonful of thick broth. "I am hardly close to being finished with the tome, but as far as I can tell, dragons can be near invisible in their attacks. We often think of them as roaring down out of the skies, breathing flame and wreaking destruction. From what I read, though, they prefer night attacks, and can make away with whole villages at once."

"And how do we fight them?" Borran asked, his gravely voice making her shiver.

"The author seems to be unsure as of yet," Aravis admitted. "Their weakest point appears to be the back of the throat, but it seems to me to also be the most dangerous."

There were a few nervous titters of laughter, and Darrin said, "You mentioned how dragons prefer stealth—how can we surmise if they have been to an area? What are the signs?"

Aravis shrugged and sipped some of the hot wine, letting the warmth spread all the way down to her toes before she answered. "Eyewitness reports seem to suggest razed settlements and vast regions of prairie and meadowland with very little large game. And I'm afraid that's all I can tell you now—I must read more tomorrow."

An awkward silence followed, and the clack of spoons against bowls and teeth filled the air. Aravis thought vaguely that she should say something, or at least ask for someone to pass the salt, but she couldn't bring herself to make the effort.

Finally, Lord Rhys took a handful of sand from a pouch and scrubbed his bowl clean, saying, "Well, I think I shall retire."

It was as if his words were a lance that had punctured a boil—there was a general stir of movement as everyone began to do the same, finally freed from the oppressive tension. "Have you got the first watch then, Darrin?" Nim asked.

Darrin nodded and put another log on the fire before refilling his cup with hot wine. "Indeed. And then Borran for the second?"

Borran nodded silently, and one by one, the companions drifted off to their bedrolls. Aravis stayed perched on her end of the rotting log that Dor had rolled near the fire, cradling her cup of wine in her hands. The stars were coming out over their heads, and she gazed up at them for a long moment, the smoke from the fire making her eyes water. There was the Northern Dragon in all its arched fury, but it slanted now across the inky darkness at an angle she'd never seen it.

It did not take long for light snores and other sounds of slumber to begin emitting from the line of bedrolls. Riding all day was considerable work, and the blessed coolness of the evening made sleep easy.

Aravis got up to refill her half-full cup of wine, sitting back down next to Darrin, who was gazing into the fire with his blade naked upon his knees. "You'll hurt someone with that," she said softly.

He looked down at the sword as if he hadn't noticed it was there, and obligingly stuck it point down in the dark soil near his left foot.

She sipped from her wine again, feeling the burn at the back of her throat but otherwise not tasting it. "You said something earlier," she said very quietly after a long pause.

"And what was that?"

Aravis eyed the glittering blade, and for some reason, it made her a bit nervous. She took another sip of wine. "You said that you were married, once…"

The fire was glittering in Darrin's eyes as he stared blankly into it. "That was a very long time ago, Lady Aravis."

"Who was she?"

At first, she was sure he wasn't going to answer, but, just as she had decided to give it up and go to bed, he took a deep breath and said in a low voice, "Her name was Marged. Marged, Lady of Boldenhal." He gave a soft little _huh_ of a chuckle. "I married her before you were even born. Our fathers promised us to each other when we were still children, and we wed on my seventeenth birthday. She was the perfect Archenlandian maid, my Marged…hair so blonde it was like corn silk, and eyes as blue as the summer sky—and her skin"—he _huh_ed again—"as pale as cream."

Aravis couldn't help but look down at her swarthy hands, and her plait, which looked almost black in the shadows of the night.

"I got a son on her." Darrin's soft voice seemed distant, and he spoke as if Aravis wasn't even there. "Or…that's what the herb women told me afterwards. She was never very robust, my Marged, and in the sixth month of her time, she felt ill and retired early—I found her after midnight, halfway to the bed, whiter than I thought possible a human could be. And the _blood_."

He was staring at his hands as if the gore still dripped from his fingers. "The healing women came and cleaned her, and they wrapped the babe in the swaddling cloth she had been embroidering in the colors of Hardwon House. I never thought to give it a name."

Darrin's fingers were trembling, and he clenched his left hand into a fist and covered his eyes with his right. Aravis wondered if she should say something, but no words would come, so she merely reached out and touched the shoulder that had gained him the name 'Strongarm.' It, too, was trembling.

After a long moment, Darrin stood up so suddenly it made Aravis take a quick breath. "You need your sleep, Lady Aravis," he said so briskly it made Corin snort and roll over.

Knowing she'd pushed him too far, Aravis nodded and whispered a vague apology as she went over to her bedroll and clambered under the covers. He went off to the horses, where she heard him whispering to them, and she wished with everything she had that she had just kept her big mouth shut.

The unpleasantness of the fresh memory made her roll over, squirming in her blankets. Adding to her discomfort was a stone under her pillow, and as she reached up to knock it away, she caught a glimpse of a pair of icy purple eyes that made her heart stop—Gyneth had been listening the whole time.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_A/N: I'm going to go ahead and apologize in advance for the brevity and awkward ending of this chapter – both it and Chapter Eighteen were supposed to be all one chapter, but it was getting so long that I decided it needed to be split. As you'll see, I hope, I cut it off at the only logical place. On the bright side, Chapter Eighteen is already almost finished, and will be uploaded soon! Enjoy! :) -Sushi_

_Chapter Seventeen_

Corin woke everyone the next morning rather earlier than had been agreed upon. There was much grumbling and grousing when the companions saw that the sun was just starting to brighten the eastern horizon, but Corin was adamant about reaching Dormotte before the tourney started, so there was nothing to do but prepare to complete the last leg of the journey. It was going to be a sultry day, that much Aravis could predict—the moisture from the soil seemed to be seeping into the air, making it thick and soupy. She did not envy Corin and Darrin, who would have to spend the better part of the day whacking at other people while wearing thick leather armor and heavy chain mail.

After a few hours' worth of travel, during which the sun was very slow in rising, the companions came to a worn wooden sign hammered into the dirt that read 'Dormotte 6 mi.' Because their horses were fresh and well-fed, that meant the town—and thus the tourney—was only about an hour's ride. To celebrate, Romith passed out hunks of soft bread from Lady Arrania's bakery and cut thick slices of the sweet, creamy cheese the region was famous for.

Aravis leaned against the signpost as she ate, Inga cropping at the dark grass around her ankles. She was rather looking forward to the tourney—she had always enjoyed them at Anvard, the big festivals that they were; it was an unprecedented opportunity to see and be seen by some of the most important people in the civilized world. Once, Lune invited her cousin, a member of the Tisroc's court, who had brought with him an impressive retinue of philosophers, priests, tarkaans, and dark-skinned slaves from the southern tribes. Oh, how they had stared at her—a highborn tarkheena, dressed in a barbarian gown and speaking freely with important barbarian men!

But Aravis liked the jousting the best. Most of the other palace ladies liked the melee, with the men jostling and dancing about with precise movements and brightly painted shields, but there was something about the power of man and horse combined that took Aravis's breath away. Ongli, acting on one of King Lune's more absentminded instructions to teach Aravis everything his sons learned, had schooled her thoroughly in the art, and Aravis fancied herself no amateur at it. She might need a lighter lance due to her smaller stature, but maintaining her balance on a swiftly moving destrier came quite naturally to her.

Of course, her love of the sport was very convenient for King Lune, who never wished to offend any of his nobles by allowing Cor or Corin to request the favors of different court ladies each time they competed in a tourney joust; it was an unspoken tradition that whichever one of them was competing would turn his steed to Aravis, and Aravis would in turn tie a frothy kerchief to the hilt of his lance, kiss his freckled cheek, and announce that she prayed fervently for his safety and success.

Now there were three of her, though, she reflected as she glanced over at Cor's golden head, bent over one of his notebooks as he busily sketched a specimen of his. It would certainly be interesting to see what lady Corin would choose—now temporarily freed from his father's will, he had no obligation to request her favors any more.

The prince did not allow them much time to idle over lunch, however, and before long, they were back in the saddle and proceeding at a greater speed than Aravis recalled towards the town. The road became wide and packed down hard with the weight of other travelers, and before long, they came on the campsites of common people, who greeted them genially as they rode past. "On the way t'the tourney?" asked an old man with a toothless grin who caught Aravis's eye as Inga snorted at him.

"Aye," said Corin brightly. "I'm to go to the lists!"

"You're'nt from these parts," said the old man. "I can tell by y'accents. Know where the lists're, son? They be directly east o' here, on t'far end o' the town proper. Better claim yer camp first, though, an' hurry-like."

"Are there no inns to be had?" Darrin asked.

The old man shook his head. "T'best're long booked, an' those're left are t'kind o' place I wouldn't take pay to piss in, pardon me, m'ladies." He bowed low to Aravis and Hana, who blushed.

"I see," said Cor thoughtfully. "Thank you, good sir."

Nim flipped the man a coin, and they started off again. The trees were beginning to clear, and the tourney pennants waving from the town walls became visible soon after that, but the companions' excitement at seeing the town was tempered by the sprawl of tents and wagons that stretched along the road. Aravis hadn't really been hoping for sleeping in an inn, but now that she realized she would have to sleep among so many loud strangers in nothing but a thin canvas tent, she began to wish heartily for a scratchy straw mattress and a dirty floor.

"Well, there's not much for it, friends," Cor said, squinting as he gazed toward the town. "There—I see a stretch of clear grass over that way."

They were obliged to dismount and lead the horses to the place Cor had indicated; everywhere Aravis looked, there were smoldering campfires, fluttering bits of laundry, and small children underfoot that made a direct approach impossible. Finally, they reached the spot, only to find that it was far too small to accommodate all eleven tents and twelve horses.

"We'll have to share tents, Your Hi—I mean, Cadoc," Nim stammered. "We must use the tents for safety and propriety, but I see no other way of making them work."

"No, Hywell, you're right," Cor said with a slight smile as he used the false name. "My brother and I will share, naturally, as should the women."

Aravis felt a brick drop into her stomach a split second before Hana shot her a wide-eyed looked, obviously sharing the same misgivings she had. Sharing a small tent—with _Gyneth? _What could possibly be worse?

"I will take a tent with Nevin," said mild-mannered Romith. Dor nodded.

"That leaves Emyr, Hywell, Finn, and Donovan," Cor affirmed.

"I should want Finn," Darrin said boisterously, nodding to Borran, "as I believe Emyr and Hywell snore!"

This made them all laugh, and as Cor hobbled his horse, he said to Darrin and Corin, "You two go to the lists and get ready for the tourney. We'll set up here." They bounded off to collect their things, and Cor turned to the rest of the companions, who stood waiting for his next instructions like a pack of eager hunting dogs. "This means someone will have to stay back and guard the camp," he said apologetically. "Is there anyone who does not wish to see the tourney?"

Rhys spoke up immediately but a bit mournfully. "Aye, si—Cadoc. I feel a bit poorly this morning, and after my brother was killed in a joust, tourneys have rather lost their appeal to me."

Cor nodded, but Aravis had noticed a very slight hesitation and a flicker of his blue eyes before he gave his permission. It was nothing, surely…but it made her wonder, all the same.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_A/N: Welp, I'm going to have to split this one again, looks like! Hahaha—it's three times as long as I expected this section to be! Anyway, a reminder to everyone that Schmo and Sushi is on Facebook! Like us for exclusive content…and a Pinterest board._

_Chapter Eighteen_

The streets of Dormotte were no less crowded than the road leading to the town gates had been. Everywhere Aravis looked, there were hawkers and clanging pans and gaily-colored pennants and haunches of beef and women with their kirtles drooping suggestively off their shoulders. They had left their horses behind with Rhys, the easier to buy a bit of lunch and make their way to the tourney grounds, but by the third groping Aravis had endured, she heartily missed Inga's long yellow teeth and heavy hooves, even though the nag had nipped her shoulder as she was changing from her travel-stained trousers into a wrinkled but summery frock of yellow cotton.

"Ah, there you are!"

It was Corin's voice she heard rising above the clamor of the busy street. The freckled prince elbowed his way to the companions, a broad smile on his face and waving a pennant of a dark orange color. "Look at that, madam," he said to Hana, thrusting the pennant in her face. "What do you think of the standard I've been assigned?"

"I think it's terribly ugly, m'lord," Hana said bravely.

Corin started laughing and replied, "Oh, I was afraid that would be the general opinion. Oh, well. Brother! Have you found the grounds yet?"

Cor turned and said, "No, brother—but we're to get lunch first."

"Very good. Darrin—er, Donovan—and I're listed now—Donovan's assigned the paly of six, azure and argent. Order of the tourney is melee, shield melee, and then the joust. There's to be a grand festival afterwards—might we attend?"

"If you don't get yourselves killed, I think we might!"

The twins easily stood a head over most of the crowd, so they were merely shouting at each other from a distance. Aravis was enjoying the humor of the situation when, most maddeningly, she felt a hot hand creep around and under the curve of her right buttock and give a short, sharp little pinch.

That was it.

She whirled around and, without even thinking, let her fist shoot out the way Corin had taught her. Only then did she see the coarse face of her assailant, and even then it was only with the flow of blood from his purpled nose. His eyes wide, he sat down hard with a puff of dust from his filthy clothes.

Aravis bent over and stuck her finger in his face. "And _that_ is what I shall do to you if I ever hear of you pawing another woman again!"

There was the sound of laughter behind her. At first, Aravis thought with a sick twist of anger that Cor and Corin were mocking her, but then she turned and saw the twins hanging on each other, almost crying with mirth, and Corin was saying, "Oh, mate—you don't cross her, no sir!"

When it became obvious to the injured man that he was to expect no sympathy whatsoever from Aravis's companions, he scrambled to his feet and staggered away into the crowd, clutching his dripping nose.

Cor was still chuckling when Corin returned to the lists, and, though he refused to meet Aravis's eye, he allowed her an extra coin when he handed out the lunch ration. This she bought a sweet cheese tart with, and she and Hana nibbled at the delicacy with relish (and enjoyed Gyneth's furiously jealous glances just as much) as they walked to the tourney grounds with the rest of the crowds.

Even though they were somewhat late, Cor's height and Borran's fierce visage gained them seats in the corner of the grounds, right in the front so they could hang over the railing and shout encouragement to their favorites. Workers were raking the sand pits with long wooden tools to make way for the melees, and Hana pulled a spotted handkerchief from the sleeve of her faded but neatly mended cornflower blue gown. "Tell me, who must I cheer for?" she asked Aravis breathlessly.

Aravis held a hand over her eyes as she surveyed the filling stands. "I needn't tell you, Hana—you may cheer for any champion who catches your eye!"

Hana bit her lip and crumpled the handkerchief in her hands. "Oh, I don't know! And what do I do if someone asks for my favor for the joust, like you said?"

"He'll flip his visor up and hold his lance out to you, and you tie your kerchief around it at the base, just above the pommel, and lean out to kiss him very lightly on the cheek. All you need to say is that you wish for his safety."

"And if I don't?"

Hana sounded fearful, and Aravis couldn't help but laugh. "Hana, dear, we are strangers in a busy town. Chances are, neither you nor I will be asked for our favor."

This seemed to ease Hana's nerves a bit, and Aravis had just begun to get excited for the start of the tourney when Gyneth leaned over the railing just far enough that the whole group could hear her voice, and said, "'Chances are'? Really, dear Lady Aravis—you delude poor simple Hana."

Aravis tried to ignore her, but the violet-eyed witch plowed on. "The only ladies to be petitioned for favors are those of the highest virtue, brightest beauty, and purest blood. The fine knights today could hardly be expected to petition a kitchen girl and a dark-skinned savage. Even you must be aware of that, _Lady_ Aravis."

_What does she know of tourneys?_ Aravis told herself calmly. _She has never been further than Wolfdell. I am a tarkheena of Calormen, Lady of Anvard, and have seen the deserts of my country, the western mountains, the wilds of Narnia, the terrible coasts of the island nations, and more tourneys than I can count. Who is Gyneth to cross me?_

"That's quite enough, Gyneth," Hana said sharply.

Gyneth paid Hana as much attention as she might a fruit fly. "Of course, I speak presumptuously."

_Could she be apologizing?_

"I momentarily forgot your understanding with Lord Darrin."

_Of course not._

Aravis laughed. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Gyneth leaned across Hana, her shoulder pushing up against the young woman's face, and hissed, "I _heard_ you last night. I know. I know what you're keeping from His Highness, and I know that you're not as virtuous as you claim to be."

The allegations set before Aravis were dangerous, as well she knew—for a woman of her age and stature, even a whiff of scandal could ruin her. Be that as it may, she kept a disinterested demeanor and said coolly, "I have no understanding with Lord Darrin and never will. Those who would believe your inane speculations are no more worth my time than you are."

Gyneth's violet eyes flared with anger, and she was grinding out a few choice words when there was a blast of off-key trumpets. The tourney was beginning, and not a moment too soon!

The noise of the crowds swelled, then suddenly dropped away and Aravis could see the mayor of the town, a small, fat man in a doublet of silver and grey, gesticulating at the grounds and obviously in the throes of some great oration, of which Aravis could hear only snippets. Nevertheless, she applauded politely with the rest of the crowd, and finally, the mayor sat down, the four criers stood up with their orders of competition, and the action commenced without further delay.

"For the melee, first round: Aelfgar of Dormotte, crimson bendy of six, and Leofric of Andrit-by-the-Motte, fretty argent."

The first pair of men to compete against each other were built like blacksmiths and certainly moved like it. The plain melee was the simplest of refined fighting, designed to eliminate the clumsier entrants before the more difficult events with the combatants allowed no more armor than mail and leather and only a dulled sword under five feet in length. At any rate, Aelfgar found himself flat on his back in a matter of minutes, the point of Leofric's sword at the base of his throat and the round over.

"When do our men compete?" Hana asked Aravis breathlessly over the polite applause.

Aravis squinted across the grounds to see if she could spot either Darrin or Corin. "They generally try to stack the competitors in accordance with their skill…based on what we just saw, I would guess Dar—I mean, Donovan and Cad will compete towards the end of the melee."

Hana sighed, looking somewhat put out.

So the morning wore on into afternoon, and Aravis began to fear sweating through her clean shift. Even Cor could be seen wiping his forehead and glancing about in a slightly distracted manner.

At last, the criers announced, "Donovan of Tullaroan, paly of six, azure and argent, and Bernt of Darriton, ermine."

"This is him!" Cor called quite unnecessarily.

All of them leaned forward across the railing, whistling and calling out as Darrin and his opponent circled each other. Darrin looked quite happy despite the fierce expression he wore, Aravis thought—though he usually wore the finest cloths and cuts, she was of the opinion that he looked most comfortable in chainmail and leather.

His greatsword flashed in the sun, and Aravis saw Hana's expression of excitement change to that of awe as Darrin the Strongarm, Champion of Anvard and Slayer of Ilgamuth of the Twisted Lip, took on a butcher's boy from a mill town downstream. Aravis felt quite bad for Bernt, in fact. To any trained eye, it was clear Darrin was putting on quite a show, with excellent footwork, elegant jabs and slices, and a quick but devastatingly impressive down stroke.

The crowd loved it.

At last, Darrin put Bernt out of his misery: his movements became quick and calculated, and soon Bernt's blood was spattered on the sand, and he yielded to thunderous approval. Darrin helped him up, then raised his sword to the crowds, who screamed with delight.

"And that, my friend," Aravis said to Hana, "is how your sons will be raised."

Hana looked initially very fearful at the word 'sons,' but then she looked again at Darrin, who was accepting the crowds' accolades with a modest raised hand, and took on an expression of gratification.

"Faramund of Highwater, murrey counterpotent," said the criers, "and Cad of Tullaroan, tenné and white bordure."

Hana grabbed Aravis's arm with an iron grip and cried, "It's him! It's him!"

Corin entered the field with what Aravis had come to know as characteristic drama. His bare head shone red-gold in the sunshine, and his muscled shoulders, which bulged out as he gestured to the crowd, were eminently impressive clad in chainmail and leather, despite the ugliness of the orange pinned to his front. Hana sat forward, her fingertips in her mouth, and Aravis sat back, grinning.

Corin performed beautifully. Though he was certainly not as composed nor elegant as Darrin, the crowd could see nothing but his impressive strength and his equally prepossessing good looks. Yes, he was perhaps more closely matched to his opponent than Darrin had been, but Corin had won the crowds' hearts the moment he entered the sand pit and there was no besting that. After a few minutes of exciting sword clashing and body slamming, Corin threw the full weight of his renowned right arm into a downward stroke, and poor Faramund's chainmailed shoulder took the brunt. The metal links sparked and snapped, Faramund's knees buckled, and Corin won the round, turning to the screaming crowds with his gleaming sword high in the air. Hana shrieked and clapped as hard as her pale little hands would allow her to, and Aravis stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled so loudly that Corin turned, grinned in their direction, and thrust his sword at them in salute.

The few rounds after that were not nearly as exciting, at least for Hana, but Aravis watched the competition with shrewd eyes. Neither Corin nor Darrin should have trouble defeating the earlier victors in the shielded melee, as they were trained knights who were used to using the weight of a shield, but the two victors after them made her think again. The first man was tall, thin, and rather cadaverous looking, but his sword flashed up and down so quickly Aravis had trouble focusing on it. As for the second man, he was the complete opposite—his movements were slow, precise, and devastatingly accurate. If her experience at Anvard was any indication, these men had seen action in the king's army, or had been trained as knights alongside it.

When the shield melee began, only 8 contestants remained. The number rather surprised Aravis—there were far fewer men than in the tourneys at Anvard (she remembered one great one that had lasted nearly a week), but it had seemed to take twice as long.

Darrin and one of the ham-fisted village guards were first up. In one of the shortest shield melee rounds, Aravis had ever seen, Darrin hoisted his shield up to his chin, feinted left, and caught the other man behind the knee. The crowd gasped, but Darrin stood back, helped the man up from the sand and brushed him off, and got back down into his fighting stance again, indicating that he would fight a rematch.

"How noble," Hana cried, nearly in tears from the sight. "And look—now that he's given the man a chance, they are more equally matched!"

Aravis only smiled. She knew Darrin's fighting almost as well as she knew Cor and Corin's, and it was quite obvious to her that he was being gentle and intentionally slow about his movements. When he let the other man get a whack at his exposed arm, Hana gasped, but Darrin bore the blow with a grimace, blocked another slice, and then used his shield to push the man over, accepting his surrender with grace and good nature. The crowd roared with approval, and Darrin helped the man limp from the field.

The tall, thin man Aravis had taken for a knight was up next. With the shield, his movements became even more hard to predict, as he used his shield to hide his movements almost as much as he used it to protect himself. The crier had called him Gurd of Gyn, but Aravis wondered if he hadn't taken that name to hide his true identity, as Darrin and Corin had—any man so skilled with a blade would not only have a surname, but surely a title.

Then, at last, Corin was up again. The shield melee was Corin's strongest event; not only did he have the advantage in terms of strength, but for him, the shield was just another weapon, something to throw around and batter his opponent with. Those who challenged him never walked away without copious bruises and aching limbs—and she knew this from experience.

This time around, though, Corin was almost evenly matched with his opponent. They were of similar size and stature, and the other man was nimbler on his feet than Corin was; their struggle had the crowd standing on their tip-toes, shrieking and groaning with each hit, and even Cor was gripping the railing with white knuckles. For each hit Corin made, he took one in turn.

Suddenly, he stumbled, received the full brunt of the other man's shield on his chin, and fell to his knees. The crowd gasped and wailed for mercy, but Corin, dripping sweat and with a shout of exertion even Aravis could hear, threw his shoulder into his opponent's chest, thrust his longsword over his head, and drove the point into the other man's unprotected upper arm. The man screamed and parried back, but Corin staggered back to his feet, spitting blood, and threw his shield forward so hard the other man's sword drove deep into the wood and stuck there. Using his newfound leverage, Corin shook the man off and flung him to the bloodstained sand, where he threw up the yield sign.

Breathing heavily and dripping with perspiration, Corin did not seem to hear the crowds' uproarious cheering at first, but then it registered in his exhausted mind, and he flashed a winning grin and held his longsword up in acceptance.

Beside Aravis, Hana let out a breath that shook and squeaked. "Will he be all right?" she said in a near-whisper.

"Oh, yes," Aravis said lightly, despite the thundering of her heart. "A brief rest and some wine and he'll be as good as new."

Hana's eyes were still wide, and it took the entirety of the next round, in which the slow man struggled with his opponent for a good quarter of an hour before finally besting him, for her to ease her grip on Aravis's arm. Even so, she looked close to tears when the workers came onto the grounds with their rakes and stakes to begin setting up the jousting stalls. "Will he be killed?" she asked fearfully as it took two men to rake up a particularly large puddle of sandy blood.

"Not if I know him," Aravis said with more confidence than she felt. Even if Corin himself were not injured, the likelihood of the gelding he'd borrowed from Cor being struck by a wayward lance and crushing him as it fell was high. She'd seen it happen to the best and fairest of Anvard's knights. Sir Aart the Wild, the son of one of King Lune's favorite advisors, had won a tourney like this one, only to have his opponent's horse spook his own mount, throwing him from the saddle where he landed in the sand with a sick cracking sound.

She turned back to watch the construction of the stalls. Ostensibly, they were put up to keep the horses from slamming into each other or clipping their hooves in the chaos of the charge, but in Aravis's mind, they were a menace that startled horses and led to both knights and mounts alike being impaled by broken fence slats.

Finally, the crowds began to cheer again, and Aravis turned to look so fast she cricked her neck. "Gurd of Gyn, bendy of six, or and sable!" the criers bellowed over the sound of the crowd, but their announcement was quite unnecessary—she would have recognized the tall, thin man and his yellow and black standard anywhere. He cut an imposing figure on a short-backed but strong chestnut mare, which tossed her head as he spurred her to a quick trot about the grounds, raising his lance to be perpendicular to the sand. As he rounded their corner, Aravis caught a brief glimpse of his face through his helm's raised visor, but it was a somewhat aged one she did not recognize.

After completing his round of the grounds, the tall man turned his mare and galloped across the field, much to the crowds' approval, only reining her in when he had caught the eye of a young woman with a long honey-colored plait. The crowds whistled and cheered as she blushed and tied her kerchief about the base of his lance, her mouth forming the words Aravis knew so well.

At last, he retreated to his corner, and the criers announced, "Donovan of Tullaroan, paly of six, azure and argent!"

Despite herself, Aravis's stomach gave a leap of pure excitement, and she leaned across the railing to get a better glimpse of Darrin and his big grey gelding, both born and bred for the joust.

Together, he and the steed trotted onto the field, his mail and leather covered with a tunic of striped blue and silver and the horse's barding a well-used but beautiful swath of cloth with the same color scheme. The crowds cheered loudly and stamped on the stands as he spurred the animal to a fluid canter, raising his lance in a salute as the two of them made their lap about the grounds. "There's no denying it," Aravis shouted to Hana, gazing at the beautiful sight of the long-limbed gelding, its coat a lovely version of the silver on Darrin's assigned standard. "That is a finely-bred animal!"

"As is his rider," Hana shot back with a grin.

The two of them were an impressive together, and it didn't take Aravis's experience with knights and destriers to see it. Wherever Darrin directed the animal on the field, gasps of delight and amazement followed. What lucky maiden would the impressive stranger with the blooded destrier petition for her favor? seemed to be the question everyone was asking each other.

Darrin seemed to sense that he held the audience in the palm of his hand, so he made the choice seem difficult. He guided the gelding close to the railing, inspecting the hopeful face of each maiden who crowded close to catch a glimpse of his face. They liked what they saw, Aravis determined; every young woman who made eye contact with him turned away and blushed and giggled madly. _The old dog,_ she thought, _thinking no maid would ever find him desirable._

Hana squealed a bit. "Here he comes!" she hissed, grabbing at Aravis's arm again.

The gelding caught the scent of the companions and tossed its head, making its tack rattle, and Darrin reined it in tightly so it arched its neck and pranced to a halt in front of them, much to the pained ecstasy of the women on Aravis's left and right. With his shield hand, Darrin looped the reins around his saddle horn and pulled his helm off, revealing his sweaty but beaming face, and with the other, he extended the blue and silver lance.

It took Aravis several seconds to realize he was extending it to _her_.

"Might I have the honor of your favor in this joust, my lady?" he asked, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

Hana gave Aravis a sharp elbow in the ribs, and Aravis stood up, fumbling for her sweaty and crinkled handkerchief. "Indeed, my favor I gladly bestow," she recited, nearly dropping the kerchief as she tied it above Darrin's gloved fist. _Oh, horrors—she was blushing_! "I wish you safety and success, sir champion."

And, her elbows feeling suddenly very weak, Aravis leaned across the railing and planted a gentle kiss on Darrin's flushed left cheek.

Darrin bowed in the saddle, slammed his helm back on, and put the spurs to his gelding, Aravis's handkerchief streaming from the lance like a proud, somewhat spotty banner.

Aravis tried very hard not to look at Gyneth (or anyone else, for that matter) for the duration of the match.

The combatants took their positions; Darrin's gelding, catching the scent of metal and blood, tossed his head and snorted, and Darrin settled deeper into the saddle.

_GONG!_

The sound of the start bell was so familiar to Aravis that her heart slammed into action at the mere recognition. Both riders spurred their horses, and the thundering tension of the joust began. Darrin leaned forward over his mount's streaming grey mane, and right on beat, he lowered his lance.

Aravis was ready for it, but it didn't make the initial crash any easier. Both men hit their opponent's shield square on, and the tip of the thin man's lance snapped off and landed in the sand, but neither of them swayed or fell from the saddle. The horses bugling, they spun around and took their positions again.

The second pass was more effective. The tip of the thin man's lance missed Darrin's exposed shoulder by a hair, but the combination of his overreach and Darrin's square-on thrust knocked him reeling.

The third pass was the last. The horses were lathered now, and the thin man's mount was bleeding from her flanks, but the crowd was anxious for blood, and the two riders kicked harder and sat lower in the saddle. At the last moment, Darrin pushed forward in his stirrups, and the tip of his lance slipped over the left side of the thin man's shield and tangled in the mail and leather of his chest. The collision was a sickening sight—the crowd cried out, and the man fell backwards from the saddle and landed in the sand, quite still.

Hana gasped, but Darrin was the victor, and Aravis said, "Hana! This means Darrin's won second place, at the very least!"

It took Hana slightly longer than the crowds to grasp this fact, but as soon as she did, she smiled and clapped. Then, suddenly, "What if Cori—I mean, Cad should win his, as well?"

Aravis didn't quite know what to say to that.

Nevertheless, the next rider out was the slow, deliberate man in the crimson chequy. He, too, was astride a powerful blue dun destrier, and the stallion bugled and arched its neck at the smell of blood. "He's a real knight, I'm quite convinced," Aravis whispered to Hana. "Like Lord Darrin. They even have the same bearing."

"Pity you can't see his face," Hana replied. "I couldn't see him when he was in the melee."

"No, nor could I," Aravis answered.

The knight, who had been introduced as Ragnar of Invergorden Valley, made his round about the grounds, and as he passed their corner, Aravis fancied that she saw a pair of grey eyes watching her closely through the slit in his helm. The next moment, though, he had trotted away and handed his lance to a maid with silky black hair and green eyes.

"Cad of Tullaroan, tenné and white bordure!"

Corin and Raider, Cor's handsome bay gelding, stormed onto the field with streaming orange barding and lance held high, igniting the crowds into a frenzied storm of cheering and stomping. Raider was a destrier fit for a king, as only suiting the high prince of Archenland, and the animal tossed its head and leaned into an awe-inspiring display of speed and power. The crowds bellowed and screamed Corin's false name, and as he wheeled Raider about so the barding moved gracefully, Aravis saw a young woman with hair almost as blonde as Corin's reach out her hand to him and nearly fall from the stands. Corin saluted her with his lance, but then Raider moved away and the horse and rider trotted towards the companions' corner.

For a long, painful moment, Aravis thought Corin would ask for her favor again—and then she realized he might be asking _Gyneth_—but then he was there in front of them, his hair shining a burnished copper color in the late afternoon sun, his unshaven mouth grinning irresistibly as he held his lance out to Hana.

Aravis was sure Hana would faint.

Much to everyone's surprise, though, Hana composedly tied her handkerchief around Corin's lance, kissed his cheek, and said solemnly, "Indeed, my favor I gladly bestow. I wish you safety and success, sir champion."

Corin, still grinning, bowed his head to her and pulled his helm back on.

"Well, what do you know," Aravis said as he cantered to his starting post to much cheering. "Two requests for our favor in as many rounds!"

"The prince of Archenland," Hana whispered, as though she couldn't believe it.

"Don't forget," Aravis said, laughing, "you might marry his brother!"

Gyneth looked livid.

_GONG!_

The opponents spurred their horses towards each other, and both Hana and Aravis leaned forward over the railing. Corin was a prince, yes, but jousting had never been his best event, and his challenger looked very good. Aravis held her breath.

_CRACK!_

Corin's lance had struck his opponent's shield square on, but the other man stayed firm in his saddle and the force of the collision snapped the wooden weapon in two, and Corin threw it aside as he drew Raider around to collect another.

_GONG!_

Aravis did not like the firm line of the knight's arm and lance. Corin was big and bulky, but his muscled legs were never ones for staying solidly in a pair of stirrups—she closed her eyes.

The crowds gasped and groaned as though their hearts were breaking, and Hana let out a wrenching scream. Aravis's eyes flew open of their own accord. Raider was cantering to a halt, riderless; Corin's revolting orange tunic was half-covered in dust as he lay moving weakly in the sand several feet behind.

"Is he going to die?" Hana cried, her hands over her mouth as she gazed across the field at her failed champion.

Aravis silently shook her head as a few boys half-carried him from the field. Cor looked grey in the face, and as she watched from the corner of her eye, he got up abruptly and elbowed his way through the pressing crowd. She knew where he was going, and she was seized by a desperate desire to go along, but there was nothing she could do if Corin was seriously hurt, and her champion was competing next—she might break all the rules of society, but not the one that said a champion's maiden must be present to see him compete for the title of victor.

She put one of her fingers in her mouth and started nibbling on the nail.

The two contenders for the final victory came out together, each on his fine destrier and sitting tall in the saddle. This time, both Darrin and the slow, deliberate knight wore their swords at their hip, as this last event would consist of a joust and then an immediate shield melee to determine the victor. "_Donovan! Donovan! Donovan!_" she heard vaguely from various places in the stands. Darrin waved courteously and saluted Aravis with his lance, her handkerchief still fluttering at its base.

Hana gripped Aravis's arm, which was starting to bruise, as the jousters took their positions.

_GONG_!

The joust was a white-knuckled affair the likes of which Aravis had only witnessed a few times in Anvard. It quickly became clear as clear to all the other observers as it had been to her that these two men were true warriors, trained fighters who had been merciful to their other opponents up to this point—but now, they were matched with a challenger worthy of their skills. Each crash of lance and shield, each piece of splintered wood and drop of sweat or blood was met with shrieks and groans from the crowd, but five lances and two shields had cracked, and still both men were steady in the saddle.

Hana was clinging to Aravis's arm so hard her fingers had gone numb, but she scarcely noticed. Darrin's strength was flagging, she could see it—the firm line of the lance was not so straight, nor was his shield so quick in turning away the blows of his opponent's weapon.

_GONG_!

The eighth charge began. Darrin's gelding was covered head to toe in frothy sweat, and the glimpses of skin Aravis could see between Darrin's helm and his chain mail were glistening with perspiration and a streak of blood, but quite unexpectedly, both horse and rider threw themselves into a mighty final push. Ragnar and his blue dun were caught unawares by the sudden redoubling of efforts, and Darrin let out a terrifying yell that even Aravis could hear. His lance caught a glancing blow off his opponent's shield and struck him clear on the shoulder. Ragnar twisted in the saddle with the impact of the collision; one of his feet slipped from its stirrup; he fell bouncing to the sand.

Before Hana even had a chance to squeeze the life from Aravis's arm again, Darrin was leaping from his own saddle, thrusting his shield out and drawing his sword.

Ragnar was ready for him. As Darrin advanced, the other man leapt to his feet and caught Darrin's downward strike square in the middle of his shield and countered with a ringing parry at his left thigh.

At last, Aravis had to pry Hana's fingers off her arm one by one. The poor girl, utterly entranced by the blur of steel and shield, quickly switched over to Gyneth's arm, which earned her a sharp pinch.

But Darrin and his opponent were still fighting desperately, their arcing arms and nimble footwork seeming to Aravis to have either leapt right out of one of Cor's art of war manuals or her handmaidens' fairy stories. The men were nearly identical in terms of height and build and their combat was a beautiful sight; she felt a twinge of regret under the thick layer of intense excitement and terror that Cor was not there to witness it.

Suddenly, there was a sharp crash, and Aravis blinked just in time to see sparks fly from the swords as they met above the men's heads. Steel ground against steel with its characteristic bone-chilling screech as Darrin and Ragnar struggled to put the last remnants of their flagging strength into what was now that deadly shoving match Aravis dreaded.

Then, in a move she was sure he had stolen from Corin, Darrin shifted the focus of his core strength from his sword arm to his shield arm, and Aravis could have sworn she saw Ragnar's feet leave the ground as he flew back and landed hard in the sand. The crowds shrieked with delight, and as he struggled to regain his footing, Darrin came over and planted a foot on his chest and pinned him to the ground.

"Yield!" she heard him shout.

Ragnar attempted to swing his sword up again, but with one smooth movement, Darrin had knocked it from his grasp and pressed the tip of his greatsword to his opponent's throat.

"_Yield!_"

The crowds took up the chant, and Ragnar stared up at his conqueror—dropped his head back—threw up the sign of submission.

Hana seized Aravis around the torso and squeezed mercilessly, nearly crying with delight. "He won!" Aravis said hoarsely, scarcely believing it herself. "Hana, he _won_!"

But out on the field something was happening. Darrin had helped the man up and given him back his sword, and at the same time they both removed their helms and extended cordial hands to each other—then stopped suddenly. A moment passed, and another, and then quite unexpectedly, the two dropped their shields and helms and embraced tightly.

"What's going on?" came Cor's familiar voice over the —he was back from tending to Corin and was watching the men in the field with a good deal of confusion on his face.

The men, laughing and clapping each other on the shoulders, finally parted just in time for one of the criers to hurry over and speak in a low voice to Darrin. Aravis squinted and leaned across the railing to try to read their lips, but it was fruitless, for as the workers began dissembling the stalls, a groom led Darrin's horse to him and gave him a boost up. The crowds took up their near-hysterical cheering as he spurred the animal into an elegant canter, his fair hair blowing back from his forehead as he stood in the saddle and waved to the people in the stands on his way to the mayor's box.

The cheering was so loud Aravis couldn't hear what the mayor was shouting at all of them as he held Darrin's sword up for the crowd to admire, but she could guess—Darrin was modestly averting his eyes and holding his hand up to the crowd, who began chanting "_Donovan! Donovan!"_ Apparently giving up on his speech, the mayor motioned to someone who came out onto the grounds leading a beautiful, tall mare with the coloring of a deer—Aravis heard Hana gasp a little at it. Indeed, it was no destrier, but it was a lovely palfrey at the very least. Darrin accepted the prize with a gracious nod, and, as the mayor handed his sword back, he saluted Aravis with it.

Hana took her elbow. "Come," she said in Aravis's ear, "His Highness wants to go—"

Aravis looked over and saw that Cor and the other men were edging towards the stairs, and she understood that if they did not leave now to find Darrin and Corin, the press of people heading to the festival would make it impossible.

Reluctantly, then, and glancing back over her shoulder at Darrin, Aravis followed.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_Chapter Nineteen_

Aravis's ears and hands were throbbing by the time they escaped to the relative peace of the competitors' stalls behind the stands; it seemed like everyone she brushed up against felt obligated to shake or kiss her hand and congratulate her on her champion's victory—it was as if she herself had won the tourney!

"Is Corin all right?" she asked no one in particular, very deliberately avoiding eye contact with Cor as she did so.

Rather than answer, Cor strode off down a row of stakes and horses, small boys and barn cats, and sweaty blacksmiths and grooms. The rest of them had to hurry to keep up. Aravis looked at some of the fallen competitors they passed and began to wish very heartily that she had just gone with Cor to see if Corin was all right; one of the young men was being tended by a gaggle of women who very gravely washed bits of bone and brain from his blood-soaked hair.

When they came upon Corin sitting up near Raider and smiling faintly at the sight of them, then, Aravis let out a gasp of relief and went to throw her arms around him. "You did well," she said fiercely, stepping back and examining him. He looked a bit peaky, but otherwise whole: though his left arm was swathed in thick bandages and bound up in a sling, he was moving the shoulder freely, which meant there could be little permanent damage done.

"If only he hadn't gotten the _left_ shoulder," Corin said regretfully. "That's where Rhys shot me."

Hana let out a sobbing _ha_ of distraught laughter from behind Aravis, which she quickly stifled and looked mortified about, but Corin didn't seem to notice. "I'm sorry to have failed you, Hana," he said with a note of genuine remorse in his voice. "I made for a poor champion."

"No, you didn't," Hana countered quickly and firmly. "I thought you were very brave and did your best. That other man nearly went on to defeat Lord Darrin, you know."

"Nearly?" Corin said, looking around at them. "Did Darrin win?"

"Just barely," Cor answered with a nod as he ran a hand up and down Raider's long face. "You know, I think his challenger might be a knight. Did you see his horse?"

"I did," came Darrin's voice from behind them. He stood outside the makeshift stall, his horse's reins in one hand, the prize mare's in the other, his helm under one arm, and a huge smile on his face.

The companions erupted in a frenzy of congratulations and questions which Darrin deflected with a modest grin. "The other knight," he said, "you know, 'Ragnar'?"

"What about him?"

Darrin motioned briskly, and only then did they realize that the man, holding the reins of his blue dun, was standing nearby, rather bashfully awaiting their acknowledgement. It was quick in coming.

"_Dar!_"

Aravis wasn't sure who yelled it loudest—Cor, Corin, or herself—but the next moment, they were all rushing forward to greet their favorite knight, Darrin's twin brother. The slightly stockier warrior shouted with laughter to see their recognition, and he swept them all up in a bear hug which nearly knocked the wind from Aravis's lungs.

"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly, tucking back bits of hair that had been tugged from her plait. "You're supposed to be—be—"

"Inspecting His Majesty's eastern holdings?" Dar winked roguishly at her and the princes. "Of course!"

Lord Dar was widely known to be the wilder of the sons of Hardwon—though he was almost as good a soldier as his older brother, he was also something of an enthusiastic drunk and an infamous womanizer, and his behavior eventually led to Lune's decision that the best place for him was somewhere not at court (hence the assignment to travel between the eastern duchies and lordlings). Nevertheless, he had never treated the three children with anything less than avuncular affection—he had taught Corin how to box, taken Cor to Cair Paravel to begin building his own personal library, and had been the one to give Aravis Inga on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Aravis knew his reputation—and that he was very much guilty of the accusations—but neither she nor the princes could help but love him, like children who idolize the uncle their parents approve of least.

"You are _most_ welcome," Cor said fervently, wringing Dar's hand for good measure. "We have missed your company!"

"Look at this," Dar answered with a grin. "Looking _and_ sounding like a king already! Well, sire, I have indeed begun to feel a similar regret for your absence—I have been away far too long. Have you seen yourself in a mirror since you left Anvard? Your beard rivals mine." He cuffed Cor's chin with a kind of fatherly gentleness. "And dear Lady Aravis—your tongue is sharp, as ever."

The look on her face made him roar with laughter, and he kissed both her hands. "You know I jest, my little bird of prey. You have grown into a true lady, and I speak for all of Archenland when I say that I am grateful you are here and not home, running Calavar for your father!"

As happy to see him as she was, his mention of her father cut deep beneath Aravis's layer of defense, deeper than she was expecting. She saw Cor look askance at her, but she pasted a smile on her face and said, "I find myself much too occupied with minding Cor and Corin, thank you!"

Dar laughed at this. "Ah, dear Aravis, you have only changed for the better.

"And Prince Corin! You _bear_ of a man! I swear, no knight has made me work harder for my victory than you. Had I known it was you, you know I would have yielded—"

"Don't be thick," Corin said with a good-natured shake of his head. "You would have fought harder, had you known it was me!"

"As usual, my liege speaks truth," Dar said with solemnity, and they all shared a laugh.

"But ah," Dar went on. "My lord brother has not told me who else is in this merry band! Lord Rhys, how do you do?"

Rhys inclined his head stiffly—Dar had nearly seduced his wife when he was fresh from the victory of Anvard, and it quite understandably remained a source of friction between them.

"And Nim, old friend, how are you?"

Nim, however, was much more amenable to Dar, as he had squired the younger man in his youth. "Much improved, upon seeing you, Dar!" he said with enthusiasm as they wrung hands.

And so Dar made the rounds, commenting politely on Gyneth's beautiful eyes and rhapsodizing at length about Hana's luscious curls until she looked liable to faint from the violent blush on her cheeks.

At last, Cor called a halt to the reunion, saying, "Friends, it grows dark—what say we allow the valiant combatants to tend to their animals and wounds? There is a festival we must attend, eh? Dar, you will join us, I hope."

"I would be honored."

Aravis's stomach rumbled at moment, and she realized only then how close to the western horizon the sun had drifted. The tournament had lasted all afternoon, and she was faint and withered-feeling for want of food and drink. So, strolling arm-in-arm with Hana, she and the companions went from the stallyard and headed for the sounds of music and laughter they heard wafting on the gentle breeze.

The festivities were centralized on the village green, where a bonfire of impressive size had been constructed and set alight. The soft orange light of the leaping flames illuminated the many food stalls and gaming booths—a sizable group of musicians had gathered and were playing a lively reel, and the shadows of the leaping and kicking dancers wavered and flickered faintly on the sides of the tents nearby.

Hana gasped a little. "It's just like the solstice festival in Wolfdell!"

The music, which Aravis recognized vaguely as something she'd once heard played when she was staying at King Lune's winter hunting lodge in the west, was extremely tempting, but so were the smells wafting from the booths. It was torture waiting for Cor and Sir Borran to return with the food they'd purchased; Corin moaned about dying of hunger and proceeded to curl up with his injured arm cradled against his stomach, and Aravis felt very much like joining him.

Soon enough, though, Cor and Borran returned with their arms laden with food and Dar and Darrin close behind, both having changed their tunics and combed their hair back. They looked much more like the twin brothers they were now, Aravis thought as Dar took a handful of small, sweet pastries from Cor's arms and juggled them for a moment before flinging them at various members of the group. She caught hers in midair and bit into it happily, the taste of summer strawberries exploding on her tongue.

Rummaging around in the various packets Cor and Borran had purchased, Corin came across a tall and heavy jug full of ice-cold mead, which he proceeded to uncork and pour into mugs. Darrin took two full mugs, the froth spilling down the sides, and handed one to Aravis as he sat down heavily next to her. She sipped gratefully at the bittersweet drink, and Darrin himself drank thirstily and did not surface until his mug was more than halfway empty.

"You're still wearing my handkerchief," Aravis teased lightly as Dar began regaling the group with the story of how he'd killed a mighty mountain bear with his bare hands. She tugged at the kerchief, which Darrin had knotted around his upper right arm.

"I must do homage to my mistress's favor," he said solemnly, finishing the mead and pouring himself another mug. "I could not have won without it." Aravis snorted into her mead, and he glanced over at her. "Truly! And to show my gratitude, my dear lady—I do wish you would take the palfrey as my gift to you. It might save you some bruises."

"In place of Inga?" Aravis was unexpectedly scandalized by the thought, and she bought herself some time by picking up a meat pie from the pile of food and taking a healthy bite. "I don't know. I feel rather…rather bad about it."

"I thought you hated the nag."

"Not that much," Aravis protested. "She may bite, but…"

"But what?"

"But she's a good horse."

"Which bites."

"I think she _understands_ me," Aravis slogged on, recalling the night the so-called bandits attacked the companions—Inga had seemed to anticipate her every direction, and ever since, Aravis had had a funny sensation that when she spoke to the animal, it listened.

Darrin laughed, and Aravis colored. "Oooh, not like _that_," she complained, and Darrin laughed again.

"Come, Aravis," he said, taking her hand, "dance with me."

The command (it hadn't really been a request) came as a bit of a shock to Aravis—she hadn't danced since the night before leaving Anvard, and that had been…what, more than a month past? Still, Darrin's hand was insistent, and the music was jubilant, and so Aravis stumbled to her feet and allowed him to pull her into the swirl of fellow dancers, all whirling about in time to the music, the energetic strings and trilling pipes underscored by rhythmic, pounding drums.

"Not quite the dancing you are used to, is it, Aravis?" Darrin asked with a grin as they spun about so fast she had to dig her fingers into his shoulder to maintain her balance. "This is no court ball."

"Hardly," she said firmly, struggling to find her feet. "I find I am a bit out of practice, that's all."

"If you wouldn't try to stand so far away, you might find it easier," he replied, and before Aravis had a chance to respond, he tucked his arm closer around her and spun her off, her plait whirling out behind her. She knew she ought to protest—no lady should be seen clasped to the chest of a lord who was not her husband, even at a dance—but he was right; the extra balance his firm torso provided her made it so that her feet found their place and began to move in time with the beat.

"Not so hard," he said, still wearing that uncharacteristic grin.

Aravis couldn't help but laugh.

The song soon ended, but before Aravis had to endure that awkward pause between dances, another one started up again, this time much faster and evidently a favorite of the town of Dormotte, for almost immediately, the stretch of lawn she and Darrin were occupying was suddenly crowded with dozens of couples, all whooping and trilling along with the music just as they kicked their heels up and leapt about arm-in-arm. Aravis, watching them, began to feel more than a little inadequate. She was a stately court dancer, of course, but she had never heard music of this like before in her life, much less danced to it. The added sight of Hana and Corin, who swept past with little grace but much laughter, only served to make her feel clumsier.

"I'm quite parched," she said to Darrin, and he smiled understandingly and helped her weave through the crowd to the large aspen under which Dar, Cor, and Gyneth were still sitting, Dar considerably less sober than he had been when they left and Cor considerably more bored.

"The mead, if you please, dear brother," Darrin said, wresting the jug from Dar's arms.

"I'll get us some more," his twin replied. He got up, rubbing his belly, and wandered off in search of more drink. Meanwhile, Darrin had poured two mugs of the drink out, and Aravis drank hers thirstily between bites of a hunk of sweet bread.

"Better?" Darrin said at length, his mouth full of pastry.

"Slightly." Aravis held her mug out for more mead.

Darrin laughed and topped it off. "Your—I mean, Cadoc, why don't you dance? A young man like you, your blood should be boiling for a turn about with a pretty lass."

"Thank you, I'm rather tired," Cor answered.

Aravis stole a glance at the prince over the rim of her mug as she drained it again. The stiffness in his voice was unmistakable, despite the noise of their surroundings, and she wondered at it. He really had no cause to be upset, but still he sat there, absently tearing the bark off a green twig. Gyneth, on the other hand, was sitting straight up and smiling prettily at every male passing by—she was obviously desperate for a dance, and somewhere deep inside, Aravis felt a bit bad for her.

Dar arrived just in time, several more jugs of mead under his arm and a gaggle of tall, broad-shouldered men in tow. "I bring drink," he said loudly, "and some associates of mine. This here is Arnault"—a stocky, black-haired man waved—"and Darce"—another man with plaited hair saluted them—"and my dear old friend Ram."

Ram was a big man—tall, barrel-chested, thick-fisted, and boasting the thickest and best-kempt orange beard Aravis had ever seen, including King Lune. If he had let it grow any longer, he would look like one of the hermits of the western mountains, but it was trimmed close to his cheeks, giving him a strangely youthful appearance. He grinned and winked at them, saying, "Dar 'ere is one of the finest men I ever clapped eyes on. And you're his brother, I hear!"

"So I have the misfortune to be," Darrin answered, and it took Aravis a moment to realize that he was making a joke.

At that moment, the song ended again, and another one started up, but soon, even over the commotion of the musicians tuning their instruments and the general chatter of the crowd, Aravis heard Hana's voice. "No!" she was crying, and Aravis spun around, nearly spilling her mead in her haste to see what was the matter.

"No," Hana was saying to the main fiddler, her hands on her hips and Corin close behind, looking rather startled. "You're playing it all wrong! 'The Noisy Tern' should be played much faster."

The fiddler looked annoyed. "Very well, wench," Aravis guessed he was saying, "_you_ try it."

Hana thrust out her hands. "Give it here, then!"

With a sarcastic smile, the fiddler plopped the instrument in her hands and moved aside. Corin's eyes widened, and he stepped forward, but Hana waved him off with her bow, tucked the thing under her chin, plucked the strings a few times, and applied her bow to them.

The music that came roaring from the fiddle in her meek little friend's hands made Aravis start and stare in amazement. Never once, in all their languid horseback conversations or giggly whispers at night had Hana mentioned she could play—and play _well_. If Aravis hadn't known any better, she might have thought smoke was rising from the instrument. Corin indeed looked like a startled rabbit, his eyes the size of platters as he watched her move.

She reached the end of the piece, received a round of loud applause, and the fiddler reluctantly motioned to his spot. Hana giggled and took it, motioning to the rest of the musicians, who looked at each other and shrugged. The piece began again, this time with the rest of the instruments, and Aravis started to laugh.

"What's so amusing?" Darrin asked.

Aravis took his hand, dragged him out to the green, and pressed close to him. "Don't you understand?" she said, still laughing. "We have to _dance_."

This time, the movement came easily. Aravis wasn't sure if it was the mead, the company, the setting sun, or the music, but she suddenly didn't care a fig who saw her stomping and whirling like a miller's daughter. Darrin's grin grew, and he once caught her around the waist and lifted her into the air, making her stomach leap and the hem of her dress whirl about in a whimsical way, but before Aravis had a chance to shriek, he had set her down and whisked her off again, all quite within the firm beat being kept by Hana's fiddle and the insistent stomping of the dancers.

Aravis even felt confident enough to attempt one of the complicated village dances she had read about in annals of Archenlandian history—several dozen dancers would get together and form various geometrical designs, all the while switching partners and dancing in that charming village way of high kicks and tight footwork. More than once, Aravis found herself passed into the arms of Dar's red-bearded friend, Ram. "Pleasure to meet you, your ladyship," he said, whisking her about with a grace she hadn't expected. "His lordship's spoken of you from time t'time."

"Good things, I hope?" Aravis said breathlessly, giggling a little as she skipped under a pair of upraised arms.

"Of course," Ram answered.

"And how do you know him?"

"Shall I say…he requested that I and my men give him assistance on his current assignment."

Aravis struggled to remember—"Ah, the inspection of the eastern lords? Funny that he should need help."

Ram only smiled and passed her on.

A pair of warm, firm arms encircled her, and Aravis was sure from the security of them (and the solidity of the chest she was pressed against) that it was Darrin, and she turned her most dazzling smile up at him.

It was most certainly not Darrin.

It was Cor.

The fact should not have flustered her as much as it did—she and Cor had danced together so many times over the years that she had lost count—but nevertheless, she took one look at those piercing blue eyes, lost the beat, and trod on the hem of her gown. The misstep caused Cor to stumble as well, and Aravis, hot in the face, turned to apologize, only to see him striding from the green.

Gyneth came by a moment later. "Every time," she hissed so hard spittle came flying from her mouth.

"Every time _what_, exactly?" Aravis asked, her blood heating up.

Darrin came swooping from out of nowhere just then, caught her up in his arms, and spun her away. "Remember what we spoke of a few weeks ago?" he said in an admonishing tone.

Aravis sighed. "She is only a farm girl."

"That's right. Will you let a farm girl spoil your evening?"

She reflected on that a moment, then smiled. "Not when the mead is good and Hana plays the fiddle!"

"Not when the mead is good," Darrin parroted triumphantly, "and not when _Hana plays the fiddle_!"

And so they went on dancing. Aravis had never felt so carefree, nor so beautiful—she had worn finer gowns and been bathed more thoroughly before, yes, but she was so happy inside that she was sure it could not help but spill out. Darrin grew more handsome as the night wore on also, she thought, and the mead sweeter.

Finally, she had to retire from the dancing for a few rounds. As much as she wished to continue whirling and leaping, her feet and legs, unaccustomed to such exercise, began to ache, and her head continued to spin long after she had stopped. Giving her excuses to Darrin, she fought her way free of the crowd and sat down heavily on a stump near the magnificent bonfire, breathing hard of the sweet valley air.

Presently, Darrin joined her with two goblets. She sipped at hers delicately, tasting the light, watered wine—just what her parched throat needed.

"Every year," Darrin said, "my holdfast sends me an invitation to the harvest festival. I imagine it looks something like this."

"Have you never gone?" Aravis said in amazement.

"Never."

"Not once in so many years?"

"Not once."

"Why don't you?"

He shrugged in a most unlordly way. "The messages always seem to reach me at the height of my diplomatic duties, and I—"

Aravis could not help herself. "Duties! Bah!"

Darrin looked rather startled, but Aravis pushed on, poking him lightly with her finger. "_You_, my dearest Darrin, are hidebound tighter than a drum. 'Duty' this, 'duty' that…even the king himself finds time to visit his hunting lodge a few times a year. You? You said yourself you rarely even visit the lands you own. And when your own people ask to see you, to treat you to the gleanings from your own crops, do you accept? _No_! Your honor is so impeccable, Darrin, that it's painful to see. The world lacks enough gentlemen, but you—you'd do best to become _less_ of one."

Darrin watched her closely, his eyebrows raised. "Is this truly what you think of me, Aravis?"

Aravis nodded and finished her wine. "Well and truly. Less of a gentleman."

She saw the determined look on his face well in advance, but she found herself rooted to her seat, and didn't even have the presence of mind to set her goblet aside before he picked her up and kissed her.

Once he had, though, it was as if a tiny piece of her—the fraction of her personhood that delighted in watching men at swordplay, that wouldn't turn her head away when Cor and Corin removed their tunics, that made her tingle all over when grasped around the waist in a dance—roared into full life, blotting out the sound of the musicians and the laughter and the drinking. She pressed herself against Darrin's muscled chest, returning the kiss with a gasp of startled sensibilities and gratified desire. His hands roved possessively across the expanse of her back.

"Come now, Donovan, this is a public place!"

At first, Aravis thought she had said it, but then she looked around in confusion and saw that Dar was sitting next to them, drinking his mead and looking quite complacent. How long had he been there?

"You're quite right, brother," Darrin said thickly. "Come, Aravis."

He took her hand and led her from the crowded green. She had to pick up her skirts with her other hand and skip along to keep up, nearly colliding head on with someone standing nearby. It wasn't until a few minutes later that she realized that someone had been Cor—she wondered how much he had seen.

Soon they were on the cobbled streets of Dormotte proper. It was hardly less crowded than the green, but there was more anonymity: no one paid any attention to the distinguished, good-looking man and his young ladylove. Together, she and Darrin strolled along the shadowed streets, gazing at the flashy motions of the fire-throwers and kissing, and nibbling on various sweetmeats and pastries, and kissing some more.

Aravis had only been kissed once before that, and she told Darrin the story as they wandered about: she had been fourteen, just starting to bud into womanhood, and a smith's apprentice (a burly, black-haired boy) had caught her wrist and pressed his lips to hers as she passed through the armorer's yard. The suddenness and rather painfulness of the act had scared her, and she cried a little bit when she told Cor a few days later. That very night, while he and Corin walked her to dinner, they happened upon the apprentice, and before Aravis knew what was happening, both he _and_ Corin had leapt at the boy, whose arms were twice the size of Cor's and who also happened to be a good bit taller than Corin, and beaten him until he started to cry. "A tear for a tear," Cor had said fiercely later.

"Have I made you cry, milady?" Darrin asked, squeezing her hand.

"Not yet," she answered.

Darrin responded by wrapping his arms around her and kissing her again. Aravis arched against him, trying to pressure him into varying the rhythm of his mouth against hers, but he steadfastly continued to kiss her in the exact same manner that he had the previous dozen times. He was trying desperately hard to be a non-gentleman, she thought with a hint of pity, but it only reached so far. Though it had only been a few hours, she had already memorized the pattern of his amorous actions—he never wanted to kiss her any less, or any more.

There was something to be said for his consistency, she thought as his hands moved about tantalizingly but always within the same region of her middle back, but she couldn't help but wish he would take her face in his hands and linger softly, or push her against a wall and kiss her with an open, hungry mouth, or let her try the deliciously wicked-sounding 'eel kiss' one of her ladies-in-waiting had once whispered to her about—if Myrna was to be taken at her word, it was when two kissers opened their lips and used their tongues to caress each other's mouths.

Aravis couldn't help but shiver with a sort of naughty delight at the thought, but Darrin took no notice, and they continued to kiss in his firm but straightforward manner.

When it was clear he was sated for the moment, Aravis pulled away and continued walking. "You'd best be careful," she said, continuing with their previous conversation. "If you frighten me, I'll go to Cor and he'll be obliged to beat you silly."

"Let's not speak of Cor," Darrin replied. "Not now."

Aravis was surprised. "Why not?"

Darrin kissed her hand and threaded his fingers between hers. "A champion does not suffer his maiden to lavish attentions on another!"

His tone was light and teasing, and Aravis couldn't help but laugh. "Me—lavish attentions on _Cor_? Oh, Darrin, you jest, surely."

He only smiled.

At last, lamplighters began to extinguish the torches lining the streets, and ever so reluctantly, Darrin and Aravis turned back the way they came.

"If I promise not to mention Cor again," Aravis said at length, turning a coy look to Darrin, "will you do something for me?"

"Anything for you, dear lady."

"Two things. Give Corin your palfrey so he doesn't have to ride that disgraceful farm nag any more."

"It will be as you say. And the second?"

She smirked up at him. "One last kiss."

"If you promise not to speak of Cor again."

"I promise not to speak of Cor again."

He obliged happily and predictably, but Aravis didn't mind; she had a feeling that on the morrow, once the mead had worked its way from his system, he would be considerably more of a gentleman.

"_Ahem_."

The uncomfortable sound of someone clearing their throat to make a point split through Aravis's focus, and she looked up only to feel like a brick had dropped into her stomach. She stepped away from Darrin.

"I was—er, looking for you," Cor said awkwardly, running his hand through his hair and avoiding eye contact. "The city gates are closing soon, and—well…"

"Of course," Darrin replied briskly.

Aravis was glad he had the decency to keep his hands to himself after that: Cor's arrival had reminded her of her place and her responsibilities, and as they walked the streets together in a staggered trio, she thought guiltily of the charges Gyneth had laid at her feet. An askance look at Cor showed him to be walking quickly and stiffly, his eyes straight ahead, and otherwise communicating very obviously that he wished to be anywhere but next to her.

The realization made her inexplicably upset, but she set aside the feelings and resolved to be much more respectable from now on.


	20. Chapter Twenty

_A/N: Wow, are you guys spoiled or what! Two updates in as many days! Don't get used to it, though—my family's preparing to move from Chicago to Dallas! Wish us luck! ~Sushi_

_Chapter Twenty_

Aravis woke the next morning with a splitting headache.

She really should have seen it coming, she thought as she gazed up at the canvas ceiling with aching eyes, Gyneth's odorous foot twitching near her face; she had never been one for consuming copious amounts of drink, and her dancing had given her such a thirst last night.

But the thought that rose to the foremost of her mind as she ground the heels of her hands into her forehead was _Darrin_. Now that the world was quiet and still, her mind worked much more rationally, and she thought about the friendship that had been forming between them over the last few weeks. Her longstanding spat with Cor had left a hole in her heart, she reflected, and Darrin was convenient—he filled it, at least somewhat. Sure, he was no Cor, but at least he didn't complain overmuch.

_Still_, said the annoying little voice in the back of her mind that Aravis tried so hard to ignore, _you're not doing anyone any good by flirting with him_.

Aravis tried to imagine herself marrying Darrin Strongarm. He was very good-looking and gracious, which was more than she could say for many of the men she was eligible to marry, but the prospect made her feel a bitterness rising at the back of her throat. Married? Her? To _Darrin_?

It was ludicrous. She realized it in an instant. Darrin was good-looking and well off, but _oh_ so boring and _oh_ so duty-bound. He was a kind friend, a sympathetic ear and a diplomatic advice-giver, but that was all. Aravis knew she would tire of his staid, conjugal kisses before a year was up and long for the freedom and importance of being an unmarried young lady. If she married him, she would be relegated to Boldenhal until she produced an heir, and only then might it be considered seemly for her to join her lord husband in Anvard, that beautiful city. And then what? She would no longer be lady of the castle, would she? Cor would have a queen, and likewise Corin would be wed, and their wives would have the political power, not she.

Aravis swallowed hard at the lump that formed in her throat. _And this_, said that nasty little voice, _is why you are nearly twenty years of age and wander about the world unmarried and unwanted. You're too particular. Any man you marry will make you wear a wimple, make you have his heirs, and make you stay quiet. _

"I hate wimples," she murmured aloud. Hana rolled over.

Aravis sat up, her head spinning. Oh well, she thought; nothing to it but to get up and face the day. She changed out of her muddy, sweaty shift and into her last clean one, pulling her riding frock and kirtle and trousers on and lacing her boots up, and winced as her sore ankle gave a throb.

The camp was quiet when she emerged from the cramped and stuffy tent; Corin, who had taken the third watch that night, was the only one awake of their group, and there were few sounds from the other camps of the tourney-goers.

"Shall I wake the others?" she asked, looking at where the sun was in the sky.

Corin, who sat staring heavy-lidded into the fire, stirred a little and agreed sleepily as he reached for another log.

As she went around calling into the other tents and poking heavy sleepers, Aravis was seized with a sudden thought. What would last night have been like if she and Cor were getting on like they had before she left for Calavar?

But she had no time to consider what-ifs; as she was helping Romith mix water and oats together for breakfast, she heard a sudden smack and a squeal of pain from the tent she had shared with Gyneth and Hana. Fearing the worst, she dropped the spoon and spun around, only to be met by both women shoving their way through the tent flap. Gyneth had a big handful of Hana's hair and was dragging her around by it like the smaller girl was a rag doll; Hana was crying, a large pink patch on her left jawbone rapidly turning red. "Please," she begged through her tears, "let me go!"

Corin and Aravis were at her side in a moment. Aravis grabbed Gyneth's hand, deflecting a blow, and sank her nails into the flesh between her knuckles until she let go of Hana's hair. Corin caught the poor girl, who clung to him and trembled. "You prying minx," Gyneth spat at Hana, trying to wrench her arm free of Aravis's firm grip.

"I didn't know they were yours, I swear," Hana sobbed. "I'm so sorry!"

The other men were coming out of their tents, looking groggily at the drama unfolding before them. "What's all this, then?" Cor said, yanking his tunic down as he strode over.

"I woke to find that _bitch_ rummaging through my satchels, trying to steal from me," Gyneth said immediately. She tried to loosen Aravis's hold on her wrist, but Aravis held on stubbornly.

"I didn't mean to, _really_," Hana choked out, holding on to Corin's arm so hard her knuckles were pale. "I—I thought they were mine, I was looking for a fresh handkerchief—"

"Don't believe her lies!"

"What would I want to steal from you? I'm happy with what I have!"

Aravis was surprised at how agitated Gyneth was. What could possibly be so important that she didn't want Hana seeing it? Of course, she would be upset at Gyneth rummaging through _her_ satchel, even if It were an accident, but certainly not _this_ aggravated. "Come now, Gyneth," she said sweetly, "one might think there was something in your satchel you didn't want us to see!"

Gyneth turned to Aravis, and at that moment, she saw a flutter of panic pass behind Gyneth's violet eyes. "Is there, Gyneth?" she asked softly.

The next thing she knew, Gyneth's other hand came sweeping down out of nowhere and struck her full on the cheekbone. Streaks of pain arced across her eye, her sight darkened, and she lost her balance, landing painfully on a half-embedded rock; she more heard than saw Darrin and Borran swoop down on Gyneth and pin her arms behind her back.

Someone helped her up, and she felt them take her chin in hand and touch the injury; she hissed in pain. "Rhys," came Cor's voice, "come look at Aravis, will you?"

She cracked her uninjured eye open a little. Gyneth was shedding large, beautiful tears as Borran held her captive, and Hana was letting Corin look at the blossoming bruise on her jawbone. Rhys came over to her and grimaced with sympathy. "Ah, yes," he said, prodding the area with clammy fingers, "you'll be in a bit of pain for a few days, my lady." He grabbed her chin and pulled her aching eyelid open as Aravis yelped. "No severe damage to the eyeball, though, that's good. I'll put a salve on it and bandage it up for today so you won't get any travel dust in it."

"My liege," grunted Borran. Gyneth was sagging in his arms as though she'd lost the will to live, and he was having trouble holding her up.

"What shall we do with you, Gyneth?" Cor said coolly.

"Send her home," Corin answered with no attempt to be subtle about it.

Gyneth blanched, and she made a perfect show of feminine helplessness as she languished in captivity.

Cor held his hand up. "Another kind of man might do that, Gyneth. But I intend to set a precedent of mercy. Do you understand me?"

She nodded meekly, the picture of remorse.

"Darrin, fetch a length of rope and tie Madam Gyneth to her horse. It is only for today," he added as Gyneth wailed for leniency. "We'll bind your hands and make you dependent on others for a few hours, and perhaps you will reconsider your _ghastly_ behavior."

_I would guess not_, Aravis thought as Gyneth was dragged past, shooting her a murderous look.

Eventually, everyone had eaten and allowed their nerves to settle enough to make traveling a viable option. They led their horses back to the main road, where they were met by Dar and his four companions (it had been decided the night before over a nightcap that they would travel together at least as far as Roscommon Castle on the east coast). It was a quiet party that went off on the northeast road; Gyneth stubbornly refused to speak to anyone (indeed, she looked rather silly trussed up the way she was), Aravis's eye was sore and throbbing (Rhys had mixed a bit of mint in with the salve he spread over the scratches, though, and the coolness of the herb under the hot bandage provided her some relief), and Hana had scarcely raised her eyes from her horse's neck since starting off.

Any attempt at conversation fell rather flat, and so Aravis trained her one good eye on the changing scenery. She had never been this far northeast in Archenland, and the flora and natural geography were somewhat foreign to her. There were boulders everywhere, but leafy, hardy trees and thick grass grew in abundance. Several times the party had to halt while Cor leapt down and sketched a new specimen of wildflower or berry in his notebook, bending and peering at the thing like a witchwoman.

Inga was surprisingly good-natured that day, as well, easing the pressure on Aravis's already aching body; Aravis congratulated herself on refusing to trade her for the deer-colored palfrey, as beautiful as it was. _Besides_, niggled the small voice she thought she had banished, _accepting such a gift from Darrin would have signified something, wouldn't it have? Indebted you, mayhap…?_

They made camp early near the shores of a wide and cheerfully babbling creek. Cor allowed Gyneth to be untied and ointment put on her sore wrists, but Aravis noticed that Darrin, Dar, and all Dar's men remained within easy distance of her.

She watched them askance as Rhys removed her bandage and inspected her puffy eye by the firelight. "It's healing already," he determined, sprinkling some herb dust on the injury to dry it up a bit. "Let's leave it unbandaged tonight, shall we?"

Nodding, Aravis blinked experimentally and found the pain to be much lessened. The vision in the offending article had returned, and though it was somewhat blurred, she could see tolerably well again, and so she settled down to eating her supper and peering at Dar, Ram, Arnault, Darce, and Stig, who seemed amiable enough as they chatted with Cor and Corin and Nim. They were all big men, though very common-looking—other than Ram's red hair, they had very few characteristics that would have distinguished them from other commonfolk: keen but honest faces, dark eyes, callused hands, and easy smiles.

Still, Aravis wondered at Dar's choice of familiars. She had always thought of him as a man who preferred the company of giggly women and drunkards like him, but when these fellows had returned to the camp the night before, they were as sober as scholars. So why did Dar need their help "inspecting the eastern holdings"? She wasn't even sure what "inspecting the eastern holdings" really entailed—as far as she knew, the eastern lords and their underlings were more competent than the ones in the west.

She gazed up at the sky. She hadn't looked at the stars since they were in Gittensreeve, and it startled her to see how the constellations had shifted—the Northern Dragon was poised right in the middle of the inky expanse, looking larger than she had ever seen it. Beomia the Warrioress was nowhere to be seen.

"Does it hurt any less?" asked Corin.

Turning to him, Aravis smiled a little and said, "Well, yes, a—"

She stopped abruptly. He hadn't been talking to her, after all; he was looking at Hana, whose bruised cheek looked dusky and dark in the firelight. "A bit," she was saying meekly, her eyes glued to her fingers. "I just…never mind."

"What?"

Hana looked at Aravis for support, and Aravis patted her hand. "I…feel so terrible for what I did to Gyneth," Hana squeaked, turning red and tearing up again. "The satchels look so alike in the dark."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," Aravis said immediately in a low voice. "She had no right to hurt you."

Hana looked miserable. "But the thing is," she whispered, "I _did_. See something, I mean—something I don't think I should have."

"Was it dangerous?" Corin asked.

She shrugged helplessly. "It was strange…but I couldn't…it didn't seem right somehow for someone like her to have it. It didn't…it just didn't _fit._"

"We'll take care of it," Aravis assured her, making eye contact with Corin over Hana's head.

"Meantime," Corin said broadly, deflecting the tension of the situation, "I think I know what will lighten our spirits a bit."

His words got the attention of the whole group, and he got up with a grin and went over to the pile of satchels. For a wild moment, Aravis thought he was going to open Gyneth's sack right then and there, but he opened his instead and hid something behind his back as he turned to face the companions again. "The festival yesterday got me to thinking," he said, hardly holding his glee in. "Our nights are much too dull and quiet, I think."

Ram and his men murmured their agreement.

"So I spoke to someone there, and they agreed to give me something…"

And, turning to Hana, Corin produced a bow and fiddle.

Hana sat there for a moment, then gave a shriek of delight, bounded to her feet, and took it from him. "Did you really?" she cried, looking at the strings. "And, _oh_, it's the same fiddle from last night!"

"You said it fit you well," Corin replied.

Hana, her mood transformed, popped up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then eagerly set to tuning the instrument and playing a few bars of a yearning, heartbreaking melody. When she stopped, Arnault raised his head from his mug of tea and said, "Oh, lass, play the whole thing!"

Hana blushed with gratification, finished her tuning, and applied her bow to the strings.

As the rest of the companions listened with rapt attention, Aravis got up slowly and went over to the satchels. Gyneth's, conveniently, was near the back, and she crouched down by Inga's dangerous hooves to disguise her actions.

Inga lowered her head to nibble at the hardy grass, and Aravis undid the ties. On the top of the satchel were Gyneth's many gowns, and she pushed her hand down past them, feeling a pair of soft leather shoes, a roll of parchment, and…

She stopped. Under her fingers was the cool, smooth shape of a narrow wooden box; indeed, a strange thing for a supposedly illiterate farm girl to have. As Hana leaned into another tune, Aravis dug the box out of the satchel. The enameled wood shone in the firelight as she pulled it free—it was a beautiful, expensive box with gold and silver inlay that shimmered even in the shadows.

Aravis undid the latches. Inside the box, there was a piece of wrinkled parchment, a tiny vial of clear liquid, an empty glass bottle, a small knife, and an abundance of crimson cloth, all of which struck Aravis as extremely odd.

She opened the vial and sniffed it—no smell. It might be just water, but the viscosity of the fluid within spoke to something more. The bottle was corked and sealed, but presumably completely empty. The knife was extremely sharp. But the parchment captured Aravis's attention the quickest: when she unrolled it, she saw that there was a list of strange symbols and characters that were like no written language she'd ever been exposed to; the paper was well worn and was obviously referenced quite a bit—but for what, she had no idea.

Last but not least, she pulled out the cloth and began unrolling it quickly. As she went, out dropped not one or two, but _fifteen_ little crimson pendants. If it had been any other woman, Aravis would have written them off as vain little adornments, but the fact that it was Gyneth made her look twice: all of them were exactly the same familiar shape—red crystal carved in the shape of a two-headed gryphon, grasping a tiny golden quadruped in its fearsome claws.

Aravis began to wrap the pendants up quickly, turning the image over and over in her mind. Where had she seen it before? It was so familiar it was as if she could touch it…

Cor stood up applauding just then and offered everyone more tea, and it was then that Aravis remembered. She had seen the two-headed gryphon only twice before: once on a worn leather string around Cor's neck, and the other on the wall in Gyneth's dirty kitchen. Only then, the gryphon was crushing a golden stag in its claws.

Making a note to tell Corin about it later, Aravis put the box back in its place, tied up Gyneth's satchel, and quickly found the extra pair of stockings she had decided would be her excuse. She patted Inga under the forelock for good luck and whispered to the animal, "I wish you could tell me what it all means…"


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

_A/N: Just so you guys are aware, I'm leaving just after I post this chapter for a month-long vacation. I'll have my laptop, so I'll try to keep writing and posting, but I can't guarantee it'll be often or consistent. Have a great Independence Day! :) -Sushi_

_Chapter Twenty-One_

It rained steadily throughout the night, a faint, misting drizzle that soaked the ground but was almost soundless as it fell. By morning, the horses were thoroughly wet to the skin, so the companions lost a good part of an hour rubbing them all down before they could saddle up and move out. Even then, it was slow going; the northeastern road was soggy and slippery, and the swollen creek had flooded its banks. At last, the sun came out, but the companions' relief was short-lived—though the mud dried up, the air grew hot and heavy with moisture.

When they stopped for lunch around midday, Aravis spoke up. "Perhaps we could halt for the day," she said to no one in particular. "We've gone quite a ways now, and it's so hot. We haven't had a chance to do washing since we left Anvard, either, and I've sweated through my last shift this morning."

Hana nodded in agreement. "I've noticed some of the tents and tack need mending, too," she said shyly. "We could stitch them."

The men were starting to agree, and even Gyneth gave a tight-lipped nod. Cor watched them all, swirling the tea around in his mug. "Romith has that strong green soap," he mused. "And the creek will be clean, rushing down from the mountains as it does…All right, yes, let's all do that. Romith and Dor, you might start cleaning the tack, and Corin and I will repair it. Darrin, Nim, Borran, and Rhys, bring our things down to the creek and wash them there. Gyneth, Hana, and Aravis…you know what to do."

Dar stood up as everyone went about his or her business. "And what would you have us do, Your Highness?"

The teasing tone Dar took with Cor made the prince smile a little, and he said, "If you really want to help, you could scrub out our cooking pans with sand and soap. I daresay all our meals are starting to taste the same."

Together, Aravis and Hana gathered all the various articles of clothing they'd soiled over the last few weeks of their journey and went down to the creek, where they took off their boots, trousers, stockings, and kirtles and waded into the chilly water in their frocks. The tiny pebbles scraped Aravis's hot, sore feet, and she shivered with delight as she took a hunk of pale green soap from Nim and rubbed it between her hands in the rushing water.

"I've never washed my clothes in a creek before," Hana said avidly, rubbing her soap all over a pair of wet trousers. "What would my mother say?"

"Or mine?" Aravis answered, and they giggled, imagining their dead mothers come back from the grave only to see their fine daughters splashing about in a stream and getting strong soap all over their arms.

"I imagine they'd be quite peeved," Gyneth said acidly from where she was pounding a kirtle with a heavy rock.

Hana looked hurt, and Darrin quickly jumped in with a rollicking song Aravis recognized from the festival at Dormotte. She could tell he was trying to catch her eye, as he had been for the last few days, but she looked intently at the rushing water as she rinsed the suds from her water-stained winter cloak. It was not as if she was trying to avoid him, not at all. Only…wasn't she?

The other men picked up the tune, and soon Hana was trilling along in a clear and pretty voice that really ought not to have surprised Aravis. "_For the Latheron lads have gone abroad; whatever shall we do? They're leaving many's a pretty fair maid to cry 'What shall I do?'"_

As Aravis pounded, scrubbed, dipped, and scrubbed some more, seeing the layers of filth lift off her clothing in the babbling water, she thought back to the box she had found in Gyneth's bag. Sleeping on the questions that had popped up in her mind had afforded her no epiphanies when she woke that morning, and she pounded a stain with more vigor than was necessary.

Hearing the sharp cracking sound, Gyneth gave her a dark look that lingered, and Aravis felt the stinging of the acrid soap as it found a small wound in her skin.

"'_For the soldiers, they are ramblin' boys and have but little pay; can they maintain a wife and child on just one gild a day_?'"

The strange box—the unfamiliar crest in the kitchen of the farmhouse—the messages she regularly sent home to her father—the anger when someone dared to pry—the startling speed with which Cor had become enamored of her. All these facts swirled in Aravis's agitated mind; she knew they signified something (did they?), but what? Good or bad, she couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

"Come, Aravis," said Darrin loudly, "you certainly know this song! Sing along!"

Aravis smiled briefly and began to chant vaguely along with the Archenlandian children's tune they had begun to sing next; she was starting to dislike how Darrin always got her attention by saying "Come, Aravis!" like she was some sort of lapdog.

_I know what you're keeping from His Highness, and I know that you're not as virtuous as you claim to be._

Aravis had considered Gyneth's accusation ludicrous just the other day, but now she realized, with a sick twist of her stomach, that she had certainly not behaved in a way that would prove Gyneth wrong. No real lady would allow a man who was not her husband to lead her around a public place, kissing her openly and on the mouth, no less. Gyneth had attempted to tarnish her character before and failed, but now she had real proof. Thankfully, Cor's cool attitude towards her hadn't changed, meaning that Gyneth had either spoken to him and was not believed, or hadn't said anything at all.

At the same time, Gyneth's reticence frightened her. The girl had been unnervingly quiet and reserved since Cor had her tied to her horse the day before, and Aravis had trouble believing that the silence was a result of her repentance. No, Aravis thought with a convulsive gulp, Gyneth was just biding her time.

One by one, the men finished their laundry and waded out of the creek to spread their tunics and trousers on bushes and low-hanging branches near the fine fire Dor had built. The delicate scent of drying wool and cotton rose above the thick odor of smoke and rainwater, and Aravis inhaled it deeply. The next time she would smell cleanliness, she calculated, would be Roscommon Castle in the late July rainy season.

_So far away_, she thought despondently as Hana wrung out her last pair of stockings and went to hang them up.

Then, it was only Aravis and Gyneth left scrubbing in the water. Gyneth had no qualms about aggressively beating a stain from a dress with a large rock, all the while looking threateningly at Aravis—the campsite was close enough to be heard, but a large stand of trees and brush separated them from the others.

Aravis took a deep breath. "I'm not out to sabotage you, you know."

"As if I consider you a threat!" Gyneth shot back with a sardonic snort.

"Of course I'm not a threat. I have no desire to be queen of Archenland—and _certainly_ not to marry Prince Cor. You're welcome to him."

Gyneth threw the rock back onto the shore with startling savagery. "Oh," she bit out, "I see. So you are so high-minded you consider yourself better even than the _high_ _prince_! What a pretty sentiment from a palace rat like you."

Aravis gritted her teeth and replied with a calmness that belied her inner turmoil of emotion, "That is not what I meant at all, and you know it."

"I know what? All I know is, since the day you set foot on my father's lands, you have been nothing but trouble for me." Gyneth waded closer, brandishing a pair of stockings to emphasize her words. "Trying to get His Majesty to—"

"His Highness," Aravis corrected.

"—to send me home. Making fun of me behind my back. Trying to get me killed in the mountains! Plying me with alcohol to make me foolish."

Aravis couldn't help but laugh at this. "Oh, no, dear Gyneth. That was _all_ you."

"I am waiting for the perfect moment to tell His Majesty—"

"His _Highness_—"

"—about the torture you've put me through," Gyneth plowed on, hissing her words through clenched teeth. "I've heard him talk about how tiresome you are, how he wished you had never come along. Well—I shall give him an excuse to send _you_ home!"

Gyneth looked triumphant, and Aravis tried very hard not to believe what she had said about Cor. She didn't answer, only worked at a set-in stain.

"And when he sees that I—_I_—am his only true love," Gyneth continued, "he will send you and that simpering little mouse Hana home and make _me_ his queen. And then I shall rule Archenland!"

"_Cor_ will rule Archenland," Aravis couldn't help but say. "I daresay the council, even if they find you competent to be the king's bride—which I highly doubt, based on your history of undiplomatic and, quite frankly, foolish behavior—they will never, and I repeat, _never_, find you capable of ruling at his side. That honor belongs to highborn women only."

_Like me_, she thought randomly.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Gyneth forced out. "His Majesty the prince—"

"_His Highness,_ Gyneth! For the Lion's sake, if you're going to marry the man, at least get his title right!"

Aravis ducked a heavy rock just in time. All the same, she felt the wind it made as it sailed over her head and crashed into the water behind her with a splash that dampened the back of her dress. "You go too far," she snarled.

Gyneth met her fierce gaze with an equally furious one. "All my life," she hissed. "All my life, I have been working for this, and then you come—you come with your sniping little comments and your burning glances and your suspicions and your _lands_ and your _title_ and your _breeding_ and you tear it all down!"

Aravis rolled her eyes. "As if I planned this," she said bitingly. "As if I knew Cor was going to meet a wench with funny eyes and think her suitable enough to be queen. You know, sometimes, I think he deserves you!"

Gyneth threw another stone, and this time, it struck Aravis on the shoulder. She shrieked despite herself, and in a red haze of pain, she cried out quite suddenly and without thinking, "You had best watch your step, wench, because _I know what you are_!"

A ringing silence followed her proclamation, and Gyneth stared at her with wide eyes. Aravis was just as surprised. She really had no idea what Gyneth was—but the girl's reaction was intriguing.

"Oh, yes," Aravis went on blindly, watching Gyneth's face as she massaged her throbbing shoulder. "I know. I know about the secret messages you've been sending—they're not to your father, are they? And the crest in your kitchen—and the box in the bottom of your bag! I know what you're doing, Gyneth, and why you're here!"

Gyneth had turned white as a sheet. Her purple eyes, strange enough in her flushed face, looked even wilder against the ashen background. "How—how did you—" she sputtered.

Aravis's heart was pounding wildly. "You think I'm so foolish," she responded quietly. "But I wonder why His Majesty—the _real_ 'majesty,' the king himself—wished me to accompany his royal son. Don't you? It's my _duty_ to look for people like you."

The paleness of Gyneth's face had now turned to a grey-green tinge, and she stood in the water like a broken tree, completely still.

Aravis sighed. Something was up—but she still didn't understand, and the feeling of mental frustration bothered her immensely. She bent over and went back to scrubbing her stockings.

Out of the corner of her eye, Aravis saw a shadow move across the rippling surface of the water, but before she had a chance to react, her vision exploded in a scarlet haze of pain and she felt herself falling down, down. The icy water crashed over her head, buffeting her face and rushing into her mouth and eyes and up her nose, but the pain at the back of her head was all-encompassing; it made her muscles scream with agony, and they would not move as the water rushed above and below her.

There was more pain, and she went down further, the murky depths clawing at her face and neck. The agony at the back of her head turned to blinding weight. Her lungs started to ache for want of air.

_I'm going to drown_, Aravis thought in a burst of lucidity. She struggled against the painful weight at her back, but it was merciless, and the pebbles at the bottom of the creek swarmed around her face until the water started to turn pink with soft tendrils of blood. Her vision flashed and flickered.

_I should have written to Father._

His dusty turban swam before her eyes, and it frightened her, but she couldn't banish it.

_I should have said a better goodbye to Lune._

The king's copper beard was the only thing she could remember of him.

_I should have made it up with Cor._

It was Shasta who blinked up at her from the sandy waters around her; she knew the sunburned but beardless cheeks and those sad blue eyes like the back of her hand. He needed to know about Gyneth…he needed to know Aravis was sorry, that she didn't really think him stupid. He would make a fine king someday.

Then, suddenly, her lungs gave a great heave, and they filled with dirty creek water, and all faded to nothing.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

Aravis's consciousness came rushing back with a flood of warm water. She gagged, retched, and another wave of bile and creek water surged forth onto the pebbly shore. A firm hand thumped her repeatedly on the back. With each blow, she brought up more water and took great, gulping gasps of the muggy air. She hurt everywhere, but the epicenters of pain throbbed at her cheeks, her chest, and the base of her skull.

As her vision cleared, Aravis saw blood mixed with the sand and water near her head. She reached up to touch her face, but it was like her arms were a thousand miles away, and a pair of warm hands quickly came near, one under her aching head and the other over her numb fingers. "Aravis," the voice said clearly, "_Aravis,_ can you hear me? You're all right now. You're safe."

Her eyes would not focus on the face that loomed over hers, but the voice made her want to cry. She managed a nod, squeezing her eyes shut. They prickled and felt hot.

"Oh, what has she done to you, my poor Aravis?" the voice mused. It was a man's voice, low and soothing and so familiar. Tears spilled from Aravis's eyes and slipped down her face; she only knew they fell because they were so warm against her skin. The hand that had covered hers came up to smooth them away. She tried to speak, but her throat was swollen and only a pitiful rasp came out.

"Don't try to talk," said the man. "Just open your eyes, Aravis. I want you to look at me. Look at me and nod if you know who I am."

More tears slipped down as Aravis forced her aching eyes open, but the hand wiped them away and brushed a sodden strand of hair back from her face. The face was blurred, but she forced herself to blink (more tears came streaming down her temples) and slowly it came into focus.

"Do you know who I am, Aravis?" asked Cor.

She gazed up at him for a long time before answering. So many freckles. His forehead in a wrench (she could see where he would get wrinkles someday). Those blue eyes so damp—there were three perfect marks in the dust on his cheeks where tears had slipped, and the sight of them made her own start to fall again.

"Shasta," she rasped out.

He frowned deeper. "No, Aravis, I'm _Cor_ now, remember?"

She knew. But he would always be Shasta to her, no matter how long he called himself Cor. "_My_ Shasta."

The frown lines that crisscrossed his face relaxed, and he smiled down at her, his eyes starting to turn red and puff up again. "Yes. You're right. You're always right, Aravis."

Then the gravity of the moment occurred to Aravis. She was breathing again. Her father was dead. And Cor was _smiling _at her.

She started to cry.

"Oh, don't do that," he said thickly, caressing the tears from her temples. "You're safe now, you'll be all right…

"I'm sorry," she choked out, almost feeling as though she was drowning in her tears. "I'm so, so sorry…"

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Aravis," Cor said fiercely, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye. "It's not your fault."

"Not that," Aravis replied after coughing out another dribble of creek water. "Everything. I'm sorry…everything."

Cor bent down and gathered her into his arms, holding her bruised body against him gently but earnestly, and she wept shudderingly into his shoulder. She could feel a line of firm muscle under her cheek, and she thought vaguely as she wept that the weeks of riding had rid him of any excess flesh; his pale scholar's body had been turned into a mass of linear muscles and solid bone. It was comforting.

He was smoothing her sodden hair with one hand and rocking gently side to side, making soothing noises deep in his throat as she loosed the tears that had been caged up inside her for so many years. "If you're apologizing," he said against her temple in a wet-sounding voice, "then I should, too. I said some beastly things to you, and I'm so, _so_ sorry. I didn't mean any of them, I swear. Especially the one about wanting you to go home."

Aravis shook her head miserably. "My fault."

Cor hid his face in her shoulder like he used to do when they were children. "_No_! You tried—I know you did. I was an utter _prick_."

She had to laugh, and it came out in sobbing bursts. "I was—a prat, then."

"Fair enough," Cor said with a mighty sniff. "Prick and Prat, professional gits."

He misunderstood her broken laugh as another sob, and he hugged her tighter and said, "Oh, dear—no, no, I'm sorry, Aravis, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Your Highness," came an unwelcome, intrusive voice. "Lady Aravis needs to be attended to. Rhys is concerned about…"

"Yes, you're quite right," Cor answered dismissively. He leaned back from Aravis a little bit and looked down at her; she saw for the first time that his dusty face was streaked with blood and tears, and there were three angry red welts across the lower half of his face, two of which had torn across his lips and left swollen scabs. "How do you feel?" he asked her gently as she looked at him.

"Your face," she said.

"Hazards of the job," he answered lightly. "Do you think you can stand?"

She shrugged painfully. Even that small movement made her dizzy, and her hand flew to the back of her head, where a raw and oozing mound of swollen flesh met her searching fingers. They came away covered in blood.

"Easy, there," Cor said bracingly as she swayed a bit. "Why don't you let me help you? Let's not go too fast."

"Oh, I can do that, sire," came the intrusive voice again. Aravis recognized it belatedly as Darrin's, and the man's arms came around her out of nowhere and tried to lift her out of Cor's.

"Darrin," Cor said reproachfully, "she really shouldn't be moved like that. Let me."

Darrin hesitated, and then his arms retreated and Cor tightened his grip on her and stood up, lifting her against his chest and striding up the bank. Aravis clung to Cor's neck as he ducked a few low-hanging branches, and the strain made her cry out a little in pain. He apologized quickly, and soon they were back on the road and crossing to the little camp that had been hastily constructed.

"She must change into dry clothes first," came an authoritative voice. It took Aravis a minute to realize that it was Hana's, and as Cor set her down, the girl's long, plump arms went around her waist and held her on her feet. "I've set out a blanket and a warm frock," she said to her. "Let's get you into them, hmm?"

Aravis reflected on how lucky she was to be taken care of so well by such decent people; she followed Hana into her tent like a lamb, and could easily have walked into a trap had anyone of lesser integrity had charge of her.

"What—happened?" Aravis rasped.

Hana peeled Aravis's bloody, sopping clothes from her body and bit her lip. "I was helping His Highness Corin with some sewing when we heard a splash from the creek," she said, starting to scrub her dry with the scratchy blanket. "His Highness Cor walked over to the bank to check, and…"

She paused and ran the blanket over Aravis's dripping braid, then pulled a clean shift and warm woolen frock on over her head. "Something came over his face, and Corin started to ask him what was wrong, but he took off down the bank, tripped and rolled a few feet, then jumped up again and dove into the water. Gyneth was crouching in the water, and he threw her aside—" Hana's voice wavered, and she broke off briefly. "I thought he had gone crazy, but then I saw him dragging you from the depths. I thought you were…well, you looked dead already."

Aravis tried to absorb this information, but it was as if her brain were waterlogged, too, so she merely nodded.

"Better?" Hana asked kindly, lacing the frock up and brushing sand from her plait.

Aravis nodded with a wet cough, and Hana led her from the tent, where Cor was waiting in a dry tunic, a fresh blanket in his arms which he wrapped tightly around her when she neared him. "Come near the fire, Aravis," he said gently, steering her towards the warmth. "Rhys will look at you."

He helped her sit on a fallen log and brushed the dirt from her bare feet. "Comfortable?" he asked, adjusting her blanket as Rhys came near with his arms full of bottles and vials and bandages.

"Poor dear," Rhys cooed, setting his goods down by her feet. "How do you feel?"

"Damp," Aravis replied.

"No, dear, your _body_," Rhys answered, completely missing Aravis's wry humor.

She sighed. "Aching…my lungs hurt."

"And your head?"

"Throbbing."

"Ah, yes, that will be where she struck you," Rhys mused. "I must look at the injury, my dear. Please undo your plait and put your head down for me."

Cor untied the braid and began to loosen her sodden locks with gentle fingers. When he was done, Aravis ran her hand through her hair and bent over double, resting her forehead on her knees. Rhys prodded her skull with searching fingers and combed through the thick strands for the source of the blood that had streaked down the back of her dress. He soon found the site of the injury, and Aravis could not muffle her cry of pain in time as he pressed down on the throbbing mass of flesh on the back of her head.

"Careful, man," Cor said sharply, grasping Aravis's shoulders bracingly.

Rhys's touch gentled significantly, and he prodded around a little longer before saying, "Hana, bring me a bowl of hot water and a cloth."

Aravis sat up to catch her breath as Hana bustled about obeying Rhys's order, and Cor put his hand over hers and looked over into her face. "How are you feeling?"

She shrugged exhaustedly, and he squeezed her fingers. His palm was rough and calloused, and she wondered vaguely when his hand had gotten so big.

"Put your head down again," Rhys directed, and Cor helped her lower her head down onto a rolled blanket he'd settled on his lap. This was much easier on her neck and aching shoulders.

Rhys began sponging the drying blood from the back of Aravis's head. The pain made her stomach roil and put her in danger of retching again, and she gripped Cor's hand and tried not to cry out. Soon, though, the poultice had been applied and Rhys stretched a bandage clumsily over the wound. "You'll look a bit thick-headed for a while," he said apologetically, "but be careful and it'll heal quickly. Now, let me see that face of yours."

"What's happened to my face?" Aravis asked, straightening slowly.

"A bit scratched up, that's all," Cor answered. "The pebbles on the riverbed."

She nodded mutely, and Rhys dabbed some orange paste on her cheeks and nose. "And a strong tea of herbs for the cough," he declared at last. "We must be sure you don't catch cold after that little dunk."

"Hardly a little dunk," Cor said coolly.

"Quite right, sire. I'll steep the tea to stave off the fever and ease your cough, milady. If you please, I'll make a packet of the herbs, and if you feel ill and I'm not awake, someone else can brew a cuppa for you." Aravis nodded, and Rhys busily set about preparing the brew. "You should sleep near the fire tonight, milady, and someone will stay with you. The trouble with near-drownings is that the victim can sometimes succumb to the effects several hours or even days later."

Aravis's sudden fear must have shown on her face, because Cor put his arms around her shoulders and said reassuringly, "We'll take excellent care of you, Aravis, you needn't worry."

Rhys got up and brushed his trousers off. "Now, milady, drink your tea and then you must rest. Your Highness, perhaps we might all retire somewhat early tonight."

"Of course," Cor answered. "I'll have Darrin try to take some game tonight so Romith can make a nice, thick stew. That would feel good on your sore throat, wouldn't it?"

Aravis really didn't feel like eating anything, but she smiled tightly and nodded a little.

Cor squeezed her hand, adjusted her blanket, and went to talk to Darrin. When he left, Aravis tucked her face into the folds of the blanket around her shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut; they burned with the creek water and smoke from the fire.

"Drink your tea, Aravis," Cor said, coming back to the fire. He bustled around a bit, pressing the mug of hot tea into her hands, then paused for a long moment and sat beside her again. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?" he asked softly.

Aravis nodded, her eyes still hidden in the comforting darkness of her blanket.

His arm came around her shoulders and squeezed them. "Aravis."

Tears leaked from behind her eyelids, and she dashed them away soundlessly.

He took a breath as if to say something, but then closed his mouth and began to clumsily untangle the hair that straggled from under her bandage and plait it again so it wouldn't dangle in her face.

"Why did she want to kill me?" Aravis whispered at long last.

Cor was silent for a moment. "I really don't know," he replied softly. "Did you say something to her?"

She thought back. "I said…well, she said I was ruining her plans…to marry you, I think. I said I knew who she was, that I was watching her, and she looked afraid for the first time. Then I went back to my washing and she…she must have hit me over the head then."

"You said you knew what she was. What was that?"

Aravis shrugged and let out a damp chuckle. "I have no idea. I just said it…I guess I hoped it would make her mad."

"It worked," Cor said dryly.

She rubbed away more tears. "I tried to tolerate her for you, I really did. I know you like her."

"_Liked_. It didn't take long for me to see what she really was."

"Then…why did you let her stay?"

Cor colored and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's complicated. You know as well as I that I really couldn't send her back to her father, not when she's been with us for so many weeks. Her reputation would be destroyed. Of course," he went on quickly, "knowing what I know now, I would have had her reputation obliterated rather than put you in danger."

She smiled briefly.

"But there was a bit of pride in it, I guess," he sighed, dropping his head. "Father always teased me a bit about Corin always being the favorite of the most beautiful ladies in Anvard, and I thought…well, I thought that if I could bring Gyneth to the city to show Father, he'd…" His voice trailed off and he at least had the decency to look embarrassed and ashamed. "So you see, Aravis," he went on quietly, "it's very good you're here to help me."

Aravis patted his hand. "At least you listened to me about Hana."

Cor smiled bashfully. "Yes, she seems a good woman. Father will like her very much."

"Do _you_ like her?"

"Of course I like her. Who could help but like Hana?"

"That's not what I mean."

He sighed and shrugged. "She's sweet and kind and capable. But does she inspire feelings of tenderness and devotion in me?" He shook his head.

"Most marriages don't start out that way," she said softly.

"No, perhaps not. But haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to marry someone you genuinely loved?"

She shrugged. "I've never really thought about it. I just assumed I'd catch the eye of a lord who would court me briefly and then marry me before I get too much older."

Cor stirred up the campfire and waved away the resulting smoke. "Like Darrin?"

"No," she said reflexively, feeling her aching cheeks heat up. "_Not_ like Darrin."

"That's not the impression you're giving him, I think."

Aravis glanced over at Cor. He was gazing into the fire, two spots of color high on his freckled cheekbones. "'Impression'? I promised him nothing. I was…it…my champion won his tournament, and the mead was strong…"

Cor nodded slowly. "Maybe Darrin doesn't want to admit that to himself."

She rubbed her face and felt the ache of the scrapes under her fingers. Cor caught her wrist, pulling her hand away, and held it tightly. "Let's not talk about this just now," he said gently. "Drink your tea before it gets cold."

Aravis obeyed and raised the warm drink to her lips. It was bitter, but the stinging in her throat lessened with each sip, and the warmth settled in her middle and spread to her toes and fingertips. "So what…what exactly happened?"

Cor brushed the back of her neck with a gentle hand. "Well, I…we heard a splash from the river, and I went and looked…Gyneth was crouching down in the water, and I thought she was soaking a stain…then I saw that you were missing, and I saw a shoe in the water…"

He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his red-gold hair, making it stand on end. "So I…went down to the river and fished you out. I thought you were dead already. But then I did those chest compressions Ongli did for Corin that time he fell into the fountain, remember? And then…" He trailed off sheepishly and shrugged.

"And Gyneth?" Aravis asked.

"She fought back a bit," he said evasively.

"Is that how you got these?" she asked, reaching up and running her finger along one of the angry red welts that arced across his cheek.

He nodded. "Corin had to come and drag her off so I could get you out."

"And now?"

"We've tied her up for now," he sighed. "Dar and his men are standing guard. In the morning, Ram will escort her home to her father. I'd like to take her back to Anvard and throw her in the dungeon to rot, but practically speaking, it's best if we just send her back."

Aravis nodded slowly. "May I see her?"

Cor looked down into her face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He nodded after a brief pause, then helped her stand up. Stones and dead leaves rustled under her bare feet as he led her away from the fire; it seemed to grow ten degrees cooler in the shade, and she drew her blanket closer around her. Gyneth was seated on a stump behind a tent, bound up like a packed pig, but she stirred angrily when Aravis came near. Dar prodded her with the point of his sword.

"Feeling better, my lady?" he asked.

Aravis nodded silently, staring at Gyneth who looked back with an equal intensity. Finally, Cor put his arm around her shoulder and steered her away. Gyneth's purple eyes had seared into Aravis's soul, and she couldn't suppress a shudder; Cor held her a bit tighter.

For the rest of the afternoon, Aravis drifted between various levels of wakefulness; she woke enough to eat a few bites of stew when Darrin returned with a brace of woodgrouse for dinner. After that, Cor and Corin spread a few blankets out next to the fire, and Cor helped her lie down on them and cuddle up for the night.

"I have the watch first, Aravis," Corin told her, crouching down to adjust the roll of cloth under her head. "And Cor has it after me. So if you feel ill, just call for one of us, all right?"

She nodded sleepily.

"Budge over, Corin," Cor said, and the stockier twin got up so Cor could roll his bedroll out next to hers. "You don't even need to call," he said, unfolding his blanket. "I'll be right here, and I've got more salve and herbs under my pillow if you feel ill in the middle of the night."

Aravis smiled.

Cor settled down next to her, reached for her hand, and squeezed it. "Just rest easy, Aravis. I'll watch over you."

And so Aravis drifted into a restless sleep, her hand warm under his.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

_Chapter Twenty-Three_

Kidrash Tarkaan haunted Aravis's dreams that night.

His stern, lined face floated through her mind, swooping at her from the inky sky and trying to drag her down into the earth to join him in the grave. "_Barbarian_," his wine-stained mouth chanted. "_Barbarian! The tarkheena is pretending to be a barbarian! She is no daughter of mine!_"

"_Please, Father,_" she pleaded the specter, "_I beg of you, accept my woeful prostrations and apologies…_"

"_No daughter of mine! No daughter of mine!_"

She woke suddenly with a hacking cough. The sky above was a murky black color, and it swirled around her as sat straight up in her bedroll to wheeze and struggle for breath. The sharp movement didn't help, though, and she succumbed to another wet coughing attack.

A moment later, Cor was by her side, pounding between her shoulder blades. "Breathe easy, Aravis—nice and steady," he urged as she gasped raggedly. "Deep breath. Deep."

Finally, the spasming in her lungs loosened, and she breathed a bit more easily, but Cor felt her brow and said, "By the Lion, you're burning up." He scrambled to his feet, leaving her a bit unsteadied, and clattered about stirring the fire back up and shoving the kettle over it. Aravis reached up and felt her swollen neck with shaking fingers. Rhys's dire words about near-drowning victims dying later swarmed in her feverish brain, and she began to feel nauseous again.

Cor nearly fell over the fire in his haste, but he soon had a cup of the strong herb tea in her hands and was waving the smoke from the fire away as she drank it between coughs. "You're so warm—you should move away from the fire. The smoke is making your cough worse, I think."

Aravis had no energy to argue, so Cor hurried around gathering up her bedroll and placed it in her tent, then wrapped her up in a blanket and helped her climb into the small space and settle down into it. "Try to relax," he said bracingly, "and I'll get some more blankets."

And then he was gone again, and Aravis felt tears prickling in the corner of her eyes. Her chest ached and twinged with each breath, even with the tea she had drunk, and her head throbbed front and back. She remembered one time when she was ill with the mosquito fever at the tender age of four, and her mother had made her chipped ice sweetened with honey and mint leaves. Aravis could recall languishing in the heat of the Calormene summer and the burning of her own body, and her mother entering the chamber with a whisper of silk and gauze and perfume; she had sat on the side of Aravis's bed and gazed down at her with dark eyes peering from under a beautiful headscarf before undoing her veil and kissing Aravis's burning forehead. '_My poor nu'r eni_,' she crooned, patting her hot neck with a cool, damp cloth.

When Cor came back into the tent, Aravis thought for a wild, disoriented moment that he was Na'srin Arahar, Tarkheena of Calavar and her mother returned from the grave. "What's the matter, Aravis?" came his male voice, shattering her delusion and snapping her back to reality only to find her face wet with tears. "Are you really that ill?"

She nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged miserably.

Cor sat beside her, placing a few rolled-up blankets behind her so she could lean back, and smoothed her tears away with a coarse hand. "I could tell you slept fitfully. Were your dreams bad?"

"Yes," she choked out, "but I woke to find my waking worse."

Cor made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and drew her into his arms to huddle against his warmth. "How I wish we could be home again," he murmured into her hair. "Father would make you hot wine and force you to take those dreadful pills we always had to swallow when we were feverish."

Aravis couldn't remember her father ever nursing her when she was ill; her nursemaids and governesses always tended to her, and usually did not even inform him of her infirmities unless she was in danger.

Still, she wiped away the last of her tears for Cor's sake—poor man, subjected to her bitter silence for weeks and then suddenly burdened with her outpouring of self-pity—and he helped her get comfortable on her bedroll. "I've woken Dor for his turn at the watch," Cor told her as he adjusted the blankets she was resting her sore head on. "If you like, I can sleep at the opening of your tent, in case you wake up again…"

She found the energy to smile at him. "I'd rather you stay with me, Cor. At least until I've fallen asleep again." What she did not say was that with him by her side, Kidrash would not dare invade her dreams again. Would he?

Cor smiled back and stretched out next to her, pulling a blanket up to his chin. "Just relax and breathe easy."

In answer, Aravis closed her eyes and focused on breathing deep and falling into the chasm of sleep that didn't seem too far away.

When Aravis awoke next, it was still dark, and her cobwebbed brain could sense that the throbbing of fever in her body had faded a little. Cor's chest rose and fell rhythmically under her hand, lulling her back towards a light doze, but then Cor was suddenly awake. He did not shift or even sigh, but the patterns of his heartbeat and breathing changed, and Aravis came back to consciousness with him.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head.

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed drowsily and said, "It was probably nothing."

She closed her eyes and curled back up against him, already drifting back to sleep, but then Cor was alert again. "Something's not right," he said uneasily.

This made Aravis wake up more. "What?"

He was silent, listening, his arm tense under her head. "Wait here a moment, Aravis," he said, sitting up slowly and tugging her blanket back into place. "I'll speak to Dor and make sure everything is as it should be."

She nodded groggily.

Cor felt her forehead for a fever; then, apparently satisfied, he straightened and buckled his sword on before ducking and leaving the tent.

Aravis drew his abandoned blanket closer to her as a cool breeze came in from the tent opening. Despite her initial comfort, the longer she was awake, the more she felt the chill of illness deep within her, and the loss of the warmth that Cor's lanky body had provided made her shiver.

Suddenly, a crash and a shout rang out through the camp, sounds that were jarringly at odds with the peace and stillness of the forest night. Aravis sat bolt upright, her aching brain struggling to make sense of the commotion outside of her tent.

Then, it all came to her. It was the sound of sword fighting.

She scrambled to her feet and burst from the tent, the ground beneath her bare feet fading in and out of focus and threatening to rush up to meet her. Their shapes shimmering in the heat of the roaring fire, Cor was trading fierce blows with a thin, wiry man wearing a red kerchief over his face. Dor was bleeding heavily from a gash over his left eye, but he too was struggling with another man wearing a similar muffler, and his sword was lying uselessly in the dirt several feet away.

Aravis knew immediately what to do, but it was as if she were moving through water; her aching limbs refused to do what she told them, and she dropped Dor's sword three times before finally seizing it firmly and flinging it to him. By the time she stumbled over to the pile of luggage where her claymore was stored, Dar and Darrin and the rest of the men were tumbling from their tents, yanking their swords from their sheaths and leaping forward to engage the other red-swathed warriors that leapt, roaring and whooping, from behind the trees.

Hana caught her as she wobbled again, saying earnestly, "Aravis, please, you're not well—just run—"

Aravis's shaking hands found the pommel of her sword in the pile of satchels and she yanked it out. "I can't—"

A hairy, barrel-chested man rushed at them, but Ram leapt between them and pushed the man back with a roar and a powerful sweep of his sword arm.

"Really, Aravis, _please,_ you're as white as a sheet—"

Aravis couldn't keep a firm grip on her claymore, so she took hold of it with both hands. Before she could hoist it up, though, another red-kerchiefed attacker came running towards them with his sword high in the air. Hana screamed and ran, and Aravis staggered back a few steps.

"Aravis, _run_!"

It was Corin shouting for her, and her fogged brain finally registered the threat. The big man was lumbering at her from the direction of the campfire, so she stumbled off deeper into the forest, holding her claymore close to keep it from hitting against trees and shurbbery.

A crash from behind her told her that the sword-swinging man had followed her into the brush, and she walked quicker, her heart slamming in her temples and the dark woods warping and twisting around her.

"C'mere, girl," her pursuer ground out from somewhere close by.

Aravis nearly fell over a rotting log, but she picked up her pace and swung her claymore out to cut a branch that was blocking her way.

Suddenly, the man burst out in front of her, and Aravis realized with a strange reeling sensation that she had been going around in circles. "You must be the highborn bitch," he growled, seizing her skirt with a dirty fist. "I've always wanted to bed me one of those."

She fought the encroaching darkness in the corners of her vision and slashed out with her claymore; the man yelped and put his mouth on the part of his hand she had nicked. "Your little knife is sharp, I see—just like your tongue! Bet your tongue tastes better, though." His bleeding hand shot out and seized her by the base of her plait, right at the spot Gyneth had smashed with the rock. Pain laced across Aravis's head. She screamed as the bandage Rhys had clumsily bound to her head came slipping off, and the man slapped her sharply, breaking open several of the scratches on her cheek.

"Get—off me," Aravis grunted out, pushing back at him with what strength she had left.

The man fended off her defense as if she was a newborn kitten and shoved her hard against a tree, forcing his knee between her thighs. The bark of the three bit into her skin as she struggled, and the wound on the back of her head felt like it was expanding and would soon take over her whole skull. As the man forced her skirts up, she hammered at his face with clenched fists, but it was as if he didn't even feel them; his hand wedged between them as he undid his belt.

Aravis seized the opportunity presented to her. When he was preoccupied with his buckle, Aravis summoned the last of her strength and her claymore slashing down. The man's face exploded in blood and shards of teeth and his scream was horrible as he staggered back, clutching at his eye.

Aravis tripped over the man's feet and ran, her lungs burning and throat clenching. Several times, she thought she heard the dead man stumbling after her, but she spun around only to see trees and bushes and darkness. Her feet bled, her head bled, her face bled, and the world was spinning and rocking and warping; branches whipped her and snaked around her ankles. At last, one caught her so tightly that she pitched forward, biting her tongue as she landed on some brittle sticks.

She faded in and out of consciousness for a moment, the prickle of pine needles under her cheek. Her head throbbed. Then, it was as if someone had settled a warm blanket over her; the hard ground suddenly felt soft, and she surrendered to the darkness at the corner of her vision.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

_Chapter Twenty-Four_

Aravis's head felt like it was filled with cotton. Every muscle in her body ached; her left cheek felt taut and bruised; a rhythmic grinding buzz filled her right ear.

She reached up to rub her face, but then she remembered the scrapes and cuts from Gyneth's attack, and she satisfied herself by brushing her hair back from her forehead. Someone had washed it, she realized, running her fingers through the strands that had loosened from her plait. The swelling on the back of her skull had gone down, too; she touched it gingerly, feeling thick scabs and tender new skin. Heartened, she brushed her fingertips over her cheeks, the scrapes now thin bumps and ridges.

At last she had the strength to open her eyes. The ceiling above her was blurred and wavered as she stared at it, but she blinked rapidly and a series of intercrossing wooden beams supporting a thatched roof swam into view. She gazed up at it for a long time, hearing the rhythmic burr somewhere to her right and wondering where on earth she was. Someone had changed her into another clean shift, and she was laying in a low cot swathed in several woolen blankets; across the small, darkened room, a shuttered window thumped softly as wind pushed against it.

Aravis rolled over finally to look for the source of the rhythmic rumbling, and she couldn't repress a small smile when she saw it: Cor was slumped in a rickety chair, his chin on his chest as he snored away, deep in sleep. He had shaved his beard sometime since Aravis had seen him last, and his smooth cheeks made him look several years younger.

Stretching deeply, Aravis slowly sat up and pushed the covers off her legs. The rough floorboards creaked under her feet as she shuffled to a little sideboard where there was a pitcher and a wooden cup. Leaning on the wood, she poured herself a drink and sipped it carefully, the taste of boiled water sweet on her tongue. After her raging thirst was sated, she paced slowly around the room, stretching her aching muscles until she was tired; then she walked to the window and unbolted one of the shutters.

A cool evening breeze washed over her face. The sun had set hours ago, by the look of it, and the summer stars were twinkling in the inky black sky; the mountains were dark shadows on the western horizon. Aravis breathed deeply of the fresh air.

She bolted the shutters again and paced back to her small cot where she picked up one of the blankets and went to pull it over Cor. The beautiful book of myths and legends he had given her was open on his lap, and she smiled at the sight before removing it gently and draping the blanket up to his chin.

He stirred when she brushed his cheek and looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. "What are you doing out of bed?" he asked groggily, struggling to his feet.

"I wanted to stretch my legs. What are _you_ doing out of bed?"

"Making sure you didn't languish and die," he retorted. "Now lay down before you catch your death of cold—again."

She obeyed with a grimace and leaned back against the pillow as he yawned widely and tucked her back in. "You shaved your beard."

Cor ran his hand over his smooth cheeks as he settled back into his chair. "I did. The hermit gave me a razor, and it is getting so warm lately…"

"The hermit?" Aravis was confused. "I thought he died years ago."

"Not _our_ hermit," Cor answered. "Archenland has dozens of them—this is the Hermit of the Northern Valley. When the last of our attackers got away, we went looking for you. Ram found you near the body of that bandit, and you were covered in blood and burning up, completely delirious—he knew we were only hours from the hermit, so he threw you over his horse and ran you here while the rest of us followed. You've slept for days."

"You look like you haven't slept in days," Aravis replied dryly. "Was anyone hurt?"

"One of Dar's men lost a few fingers, and Nim was slashed across the face—Rhys says he might never see out of his left eye again. But no one was killed."

"That's good," Aravis said with relief. "And Gyneth? She was tied up—did the bandits hurt her?"

Cor was silent, and she turned over to look at him. He had a strange, strained look on his face. "What is it?"

"You'll have to ask Dar for the full story," he said reluctantly, "but…the bandits seem…they…well, they cut her bonds, let her horse loose, and took her with them."

"They _abducted_ her?"

"They took her with them," Cor said as though the words were painful. "I…think she went willingly."

The face of her attacker flashed suddenly before her eyes, and she squeezed them shut as she heard his gravelly voice saying, _You must be the highborn bitch._ "The man," she said slowly. "The man who tried to violate me. He said—"

"_Violate_?"

She looked over at Cor. He was staring at her with big blue eyes, leaning forward in his seat like he was about to burst from it. "Yes?" she said slowly. "The man followed me into the woods and said, 'You must be the highborn bitch. I've always wanted to bed one of those.' Or something like that."

Cor sprang to his feet. "Aravis, he raped you!"

"Tried to," she replied bracingly. "You're missing the point—"

He started pacing, running his hands through his hair. "He raped you, and I helped _bury _the bastard—"

His distress alarmed Aravis, and she got up and went over to him, taking him firmly by the hand. "Cor, he _didn't_. I swear it. Listen to me."

"You'd tell me if something like that happened, wouldn't you?" Cor asked, looking miserable. "It's not safe for women here, I'm learning, even women like you who can take care of themselves."

She squeezed his hand. "Of course I would. I would expect you to exact revenge on him."

This made him smile for a moment, but then he frowned again. "Why are you out of bed again?"

"Cor!"

"You need to rest," he said firmly.

With a sigh, she went back to the bed and curled up on the straw mattress. Cor tucked her in again, so tightly she couldn't move her legs, and then sat on his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. "Will you let me finish about my attacker?" she asked gently.

He sighed. "Yes. Sorry."

"When he was pursuing me, he said that he knew me as 'that highborn bitch.' And later, he said I had a sharp tongue, even though I hadn't said a word to him. How did he know about me?"

Cor rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I think Dar knows something he's not letting on to me about. He didn't seem surprised when Gyneth was gone."

Aravis reflected on this information for a minute, but her exhausted brain kept circulating the same memories over and over and getting no epiphanies. She sighed and propped herself up on an elbow. "Has Corin made sure to post a double guard?"

"Of course. Dar and his men have been patrolling the woods nearby, in case the bandits try again." He dropped his face into his hands and swore loudly. "If it would make this stop, I would forfeit my crown!"

Aravis stared at him. "Cor, what are you saying?"

"I'm so tired of not being able to keep you safe—to keep _everyone_ safe." He fisted both his hands in his red-gold hair. "If I can't keep fifteen people safe from attack by random ruffians, how can I protect an entire _kingdom_?"

Aravis threw her pillow at Cor, and it hit him full in the face.

"_Ow_!"

"Stop whining, Cor. I daresay you've done a damn good job of keeping fifteen very different people working together and protecting _themselves_, and that's what being a good king is all about. You can never be perfect, and no one expects you to, or to shield them from every possible mishap, so don't bother yourself with trying to do so."

Cor glared at her for a moment, then sagged back in his chair and looked absolutely exhausted. "I'll try."

Aravis watched him. "Why don't we stop worrying about it for a while?" she said after a moment. "Gyneth is gone for now, and there's nothing we can do until we're all back to health."

Cor smiled a little at her. "As my lady says."

"You should try to get some sleep, too," she added softly. "You look so tired."

"But then who would make sure you don't run off on us?" Cor said dryly.

"Do I really need to be nursed?"

"You were delirious for two days, and asleep for another…yes, I should think so."

She was quiet for a few minutes. Then she said, "There's room on this mattress. At least lay down for an hour or so."

Cor snorted. "And risk your reputation? I think not."

"Why not? You are a man of honor in desperate need of rest, and I am an invalid. Who would question it?"

He still looked uncomfortable, and Aravis laughed. "Cor, I seem to remember that you spent the first two months of our time at Anvard in my bed at night."

"That was different! I was a frightened child, and you were the only familiar thing in a world of change."

"And how is that different from now?" she asked softly.

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Cor slowly got to his feet, kicked his boots off, and lowered himself down onto the mattress on top of the blankets. Aravis smiled.

"Just for a few minutes," he said stubbornly, folding his hands on his chest.

Aravis put her head on his shoulder and pulled her blanket up to her chin. "I'm glad we're on speaking terms again, Cor."

He craned his neck to look down at her and tried to hide a grudging smile. "I never realized how much I rely on your advice until it's gone and I have to do things on my own. I think I will regret treating you so poorly for the rest of my life."

"Yes, if I have anything to say about it."

Cor chuckled, and the low sound rumbled pleasantly in Aravis's ear. "I should have—"

She shushed him. "Sleep, Cor."

"But I—"

"Quiet."

He lapsed into irritated silence, but a few minutes later, his chest was rising and falling rhythmically, and there was a gentle rumble coming from his throat. Aravis smiled, rolled over, and closed her eyes.

_A/N: All right, a bit fluffy. That's what a five-hour car ride will make you write. Anyway, the next leg of my month-long vacation starts tomorrow with my first plane ride ever! If I don't update for a while, you can assume I was either eaten by Canadians or pushed off of Mt. Rainier. I'll do my best to return to the Midwest in one piece. Eh? ~Sushi_


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

_A/N: Hey, everyone! The Canadians didn't eat me! Anyway, the reason this chapter took so dang long—remember the bout of food poisoning I had in May? Well, it turns out that severe stomach illnesses can actually trigger dormant food allergies and gastrointestinal diseases—I've been in moderate to severe abdominal pain since then, and with the stress of my recent move cross-country (literally, we pulled into Texas three days ago), have only gotten worse. So I've been bouncing between specialists getting scoped and prodded and ultrasounded, and have been in no condition to write—I can barely eat and have been getting no sleep whatsoever. _

_I have appreciated and will continue to appreciate your patience and support as I deal with these health issues! Next big thing that could throw a wrench in the works update-wise—moving back to school! Yes, from Texas back to Michigan at the end of August._

_Thanks for the support, once again! For more up-to-date news, be sure to like Schmo and Sushi on Facebook!_

_-Sushi_

_Chapter Twenty-Five_

When Aravis awoke next, she found herself tangled up in the scratchy woolen blanket, pinned to the mattress between Cor and the wall by the weight of Cor's arm across her midriff. She lay in the darkened room for a few minutes, cozy and comfortable in her nest of warmth as she listened to the sounds of Cor's rhythmic breathing and the twittering of morning birds outside the shuttered window. If Cor hadn't told her the truth of the matter the night before, she might have thought she was eleven again, huddled in the silence of the hermit's hut as she waited for news from the Narnians.

Cor shifted slightly in his sleep, tightening his arm across her, and Aravis woke more fully and ran a cool, dry hand over her face. Her forehead, too, was cool, and the ache behind her eyes had receded, leaving nothing but a hollowness in her stomach and a cottony throat.

"Cor," she called gently, prying his arm off and nudging his shoulder. "It's morning. Wake up."

He groaned and rolled over, shoved his face in her pillow, and was snoring again in a minute.

"Get up, prince of puffy eyelids and baron of bed hair," she teased. "You've gotten me quite stuck."

"I think I shall leave you here, then," he mumbled thickly. "It would save me quite a lot of effort if I could keep you out of trouble and in decent health."

She fought against the constricting blankets and sat up, tugging them off of Cor's legs as well. He yelped and curled up against the cool morning air. "There's much to do, I'm sure," she said over his protestations. "I feel much better, and I'm sure we could cover a few miles today. We must reach Roscommon by the rainy season, after all."

"Can't we just sleep here today?" Cor whined. "I haven't slept so well in months."

Aravis pulled the pillow out from under his head. "You won't sleep a wink if we get caught in the storms. Besides," she added thoughtfully, "you need to shave again."

"Again? I just did!"

"Gentlemen must either shave every day or grow a full beard. Your father says so all the time. Otherwise—"

"I will end up looking like a common knave, I know," Cor recited darkly.

"It's true, though."

"Yes, but how do you think one _goes_ from being completely clean-shaven to having this full beard you sing the praises of?"

"Do whatever you will," Aravis said matter-of-factly, "but you must be sure to have a decent, well-trimmed growth before we reach Roscommon if you're to have anything at all."

"I will put all my effort into growing it faster, then," he said dryly.

"Good. Now do get up, so I can be free of these blankets."

Cor grudgingly rolled over and pulled on his boots.

"First things first," she said, clambering over him to where the frock she had been wearing that fateful day had been draped over a chest. "We must eat a hearty breakfast."

"No complaints."

She pulled the dress on over her head. "And then you and I and Corin must speak to Dar right away—get him to tell us the whole story about Gyneth. Could you lace me up?"

Cor obliged. "We'll set the others to preparing to leave and ask the hermit for the use of his gardens. I have a feeling Dar's information isn't meant for everyone's ears."

"Indeed," said Aravis grimly, "if Gyneth really went willingly, who can we trust now?"

"You must speak to Darrin, too."

Aravis paused, then started braiding her dark hair. "Why should I talk to him?" she asked guardedly.

Cor shrugged. "Like I said last night—he seems to be laboring under…certain assumptions."

"Which he had no right to form in the first place!"

"Well, I think _I'd_ have these assumptions too if you had snogged _me_ like that—"

"I didn't _snog_ him—"

"That's what it looked like to me—"

"What do you know about snogging, anyway, oh prince who finds palace ladies 'too silly to be worth your time'?"

"More than you!"

"Oh, _aye_, I'm quite sure—"

"What's that supposed to mean!"

"You haven't even tried to snog anyone," Aravis plowed on, "and I know this for a fact because you would have told me right away—"

"That's more than you can say for yourself!"

"I didn't need to tell you about Darrin because first, there is nothing _to_ tell, and second, you saw it with your own eyes—"

"And if I hadn't? Would you still have told me?"

A sharp retort was on the tip of Aravis's tongue, but it expended itself in a puff of breath, and she fell silent, glaring at Cor who was standing with his feet in a wide stance she had often seen Corin assume right before knocking someone down. "We weren't on the best of terms that night," she said at last.

"Would you have told me later, though?"

His blue eyes had a pleading light in them, and Aravis realized with a sudden shock that he was hurt; he didn't know how deeply their spat had affected her, only saw that she was seeming to replace him with Darrin—and then rejecting him further in favor of shallow romance—she closed her eyes. Darrin had fit very poorly into the gap Cor had left in her life, and she was beginning to understand that the only one who would fill the empty space was the man himself.

"Yes," she said quietly.

Her answer seemed to mollify him, and he nodded slightly as he finished dressing in silence. When they were both fully outfitted, Cor lifted the trapdoor and handed her down the ladder. The room they descended into was small and smoky; shuttered windows gave it the impression that it was much smaller than the loft in which Aravis had spent the last few days.

"Where is everyone?" she asked, glancing around the low-ceilinged space.

"We're camped outside," Cor answered. "The heat broke a few nights back with rain, a good, proper storm."

"Has someone been caring for Inga?" she ventured. "Standing on wet ground will make her hooves sore…"

"I've tended her myself," Cor assured her. "Now let's go out—you could use some fresh air, I think."

Aravis nodded and followed him across the small room; he pushed the creaky door open and they emerged into a verdant, elegant garden. It reminded Aravis vaguely of the famous hanging gardens in the palace of the Tisroc—tall hedgerows and ancient stone walls made wide paths through neatly-trimmed shrubberies and flowers of the wild and hothouse varieties. The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky, and it reflected off the bright canvas tents that dotted the paths; there was a general sense of laid-back productivity, as everywhere Aravis looked, someone was diligently working on a project.

"_Aravis_!"

Hana came running over and seized Aravis's hand, then quickly released it with an apologetic smile. "How do you feel? You look so much better!"

"Still peaky, though," Corin said, following close behind.

"Shut up, Corin," said Cor.

Aravis couldn't resist a grin. "I feel much better, thank you."

"Your face is healing so nicely—and yours, Prince Cor," Hana observed, eyeing their scratches with a practiced eye.

"You seem quite acquainted with the physiology of scratch wounds," Corin said jokingly.

"I am," Hana retorted. "One must be when proprietress of an inn, you know."

Cor laughed.

"So," Aravis said, "where is this hermit I've heard of?"

"Oh, he is simply _wonderful_," Hana gushed. "At first, he quite frightened me, he did, with his hair and his eyes, but he is so wise and kind! He was so good to you while you were ill, Aravis."

"I want to meet him," Aravis asserted. "I've developed a rather soft spot for hermits, you know."

"I saw him last in the rhododendrons," said Corin.

"No, I thought he said he would spend the morning tending his bees," Cor countered.

"Well, I saw him in the rhododendrons," Corin said stubbornly.

"No, by the beehives!"

"A ha'gild says you're wrong."

"You're on."

The twins took off down a garden path, and Aravis had to smile.

"You should sit and rest," Hana told her. "The worst thing to do right after being so ill is to overwork yourself."

"Yes, nurse," Aravis replied, and she sat obediently on a small wooden bench, her body unexpectedly appreciative of the rest.

Hana took a seat next to her. "We were all quite worried about you," she said after a few minutes' companionable silence.

"I'm flattered," said Aravis.

"Cor and Corin were the most upset, though Corin refused to show it." Hana paused again. "I really was quite ignorant of how close your friendship with them really is."

"Oh?" Aravis replied. "I didn't think it was terribly important."

"Cor told me a little of how you came to meet," Hana said, nodding sagely. "Right after he'd fished you from the river and you were dozing. Corin told me the rest later." She fiddle with the hem of her kirtle. "Knowing what I know now, I'm glad to see you and Cor are speaking again. I really thought before now that you were just acquaintances…and that Cor was always serious and disgruntled. Don't make fun," she protested as Aravis laughed uproariously. "He seems so much better-natured now!"

"Maybe it's because Gyneth is gone," Aravis joked, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

"No!—well, yes—but…oh, Aravis. You should have seen him when he realized what she was doing to you. It was like…" She paused, struggling to find the right words. "It was like…like no one else existed…like it was his own self he saw in the water, not just you. I think he really would have killed that witch to save you, if it had come to that."

The conversation was making Aravis felt warm around the face, and she tried to brush it off and end it. "He would have done the same for you, I have no doubt."

"No, I really don't think so," Hana replied musingly. "He and Corin do love you deeply, Aravis. Most people consider themselves lucky to have _one _such friend so devoted to them…and you have _two_."

Aravis laughed despite herself. "'Love'? Come, now, Hana, don't be silly. The princes don't love me, and I don't love them. Are we fond of each other? Certainly. We don't _love_, though."

Hana looked stricken. "How can you say that? If you don't love them, who _can _you love?"

"No one, I suppose," Aravis answered with a shrug. "I am fond of many people, though—"

"No one?" Hana said despairingly. "Not even your mother?"

Hana's words were starting to sting. "My mother died when I was very young," she said coolly. Where were Cor and Corin?

"But what about your _father_—"

"My father sold me into marriage when I was eleven to pay off some gambling debts," Aravis shot back, clenching her fists. "I harbor no delusions of affection for him, mark my words."

"You don't love people because of what they've done or not done," Hana protested. "You love them because of who they _are_—"

"And my father was a snake," Aravis spat. The heat in her face was making her feel ill again, and she stood up abruptly. The ground spun.

"Oh, dear—I didn't mean to upset you so," Hana said quickly.

Aravis rounded on her. "Then perhaps you shouldn't pry into others' business! I have always fended for myself quite well, thank you, and I don't need you bossing me about and telling me who to love and how!"

Her anger was making her feel even woozier, but Aravis couldn't stem the flow of scathing comments, and she railed against Hana with increasing vitriol. "You presume to know me, Hana of Wolfdell—me, a woman few know and even fewer admire! Well, let me tell you, _lady_, that I have done and seen more in my last few months than you have in your entire seventeen years! Who are you to tell me how to direct my friendships? Tell me, Hana!"

"A friend who cares about you," Hana answered doggedly, her chin quivering.

Aravis scoffed. "You do not care _about_ me, Hana, don't insult me like that—you care about my business, about my rank and my title! Tell me, what scandal-monger are _you_ in cohorts with? Are you writing daily about my eating habits, my frocks, my conversations? Or are you saying I'm spending my nights in wild whoring abandon with every man I meet, that I sold my maidenhead years ago to a Calormene bawdy-house because I simply cannot contain my lust?"

Hana, blanching, began to stammer out a response, but Aravis, in the midst of unloading years of bitterness, didn't even hear her. "Or, Hana, perhaps your angle is more sinister. Are you plotting to kill me, too? Have you lulled me into a sense of security? Are you just waiting for me to turn my back so you can slip a knife between my ribs? Or are you of the more straightforward type and plan to bash my skull in with a rock?"

"No!" Hana cried, tears streaming from her eyes. "No, Aravis! Never!"

"You're just as bad as Gyneth," Aravis snapped. "Go away, Hana. I should never have told Cor to bring you along."

This was the last straw for Hana, who burst into sobs. "I didn't—I never—"

"Go!" Aravis shot.

Hana hurried away, sobbing into her hands. At the moment she would have darted down a path, Corin emerged from it, and she gave a gasp of surprise and ran off in another direction.

Corin stared after her with a furrowed brow. "What happened to Hana?"

"You mean 'what did Hana do'?" Aravis bit out darkly.

He looked quickly at her. "Aravis, did you—"

"I didn't do anything!" she cried, now close to tears herself.

"_Aravis_! What did you do to her?"

"Corin please stop shouting at me—"

"_Aravis you should have known better—_"

"_You weren't there! You don't know what she said_—"

"What could Hana _possibly_ have done to you? SHE WOULDN'T HURT A FLY!"

Aravis sat down hard, gripping the grass in white-knuckled fists, and fought the urge to vomit. Corin stared at her for a brief moment, trembling visibly, then spun on his heel and ran off the way Hana had gone. There was a heavy silence as Aravis swallowed back her gag reflex.

"What was all that shouting? Aravis, are you all right?"

Oh, damn it all, there was Cor.

"Leave me alone," she said bitterly as he knelt beside her.

"You look rather green." He felt her forehead and then put his arm around her shoulder, but she shook it off with annoyance. "Well, if you're going to be _that_ way," he snapped, but a thin, calm voice spoke over his angry conclusion.

"Come now, children, let's be gracious to each other."

Aravis glanced up at the source of the voice. It was an impossibly tiny man, nearly swallowed up by his dirty burlap robes and long white beard, and very thin as well. Still, his wrinkled cheeks had the flush of good health on them, and he pulled long, thick gloves off his bony hands with a flourish. "I sense some dissention in the ranks, hm?" he said, tottering over to Aravis. "'A rotten apple spoils the whole bushel,' as they say. Or perhaps, 'familiarity breeds contempt,' hm?"

She wanted to rail at this brazen interruption, but quickly found she didn't have the strength, so she dropped her gaze and started to shiver.

"It is always particularly gratifying to see my patients up and about, my dear," the hermit said to Aravis, "but I do think you ought to lay back and rest a bit. You have quite expended yourself with that little shouting match, don't you think?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stubbornly.

"Hm," said the hermit. "Perhaps. But I do know a fair-haired maid is presently curled up under a yew tree and watering its roots with her tears."

His words sent a sharp knife through Aravis's heart, and she pinched her lips together as he made her lay back on a rough cushion. Cor looked divided between tending her and stalking off in anger; she rather wanted him to go away, too, but when he continued to hover by her side, she felt a tiny glow of gratification.

"Ah, you are recovering nicely," the hermit said momentarily after feeling her pulse and listening to her breathing. "But you are still much weakened. Won't you have a cup of chocolate, my dear? I'm afraid I went and burned all the porridge this morning."

She sat up and sipped halfheartedly at the cup the hermit handed her. The liquid inside was hot and thick, and it settled securely in her stomach, warming her all the way to her toes.

"Will she be ready to travel soon?" Cor asked him.

"It is all relative, my son," the hermit responded. "If the young lady does what she is told and rests all of today, and the weather permits, I see no reason why you may not depart at a leisurely pace tomorrow or perhaps the day after. But if the young lady does _not_ do what she is told, you may have to wait many days before she is fit to travel."

Aravis refused to meet Cor's eye.

"Thank you," Cor said, getting to his feet. "The crown is much indebted to you."

The hermit chortled. "Oh, you royals—always thinking people do you favors because of your status. Has it never occurred to you that we are just doing what is right because you are human like us?"

This made Aravis feel incredibly guilty again, and Cor watched as the hermit went, still chuckling to himself.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

_A/N: Thanks for everyone's words of encouragement! I'm going in for an endoscopy and biopsy next week, so please keep me in your prayers._

_ Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter—we'll see whose guesses as to Gyneth's real identity were right!_

_Chapter Twenty-Six_

After the hermit left, Cor stood by Aravis in silence as she finished her chocolate.

"Well," he said at last. "Have you recovered sufficiently?"

She nodded stiffly.

"Then we really must speak to Dar."

Aravis nodded again and struggled to her feet; Cor took her arm and let her lean against him as he led her off down one of the paths.

Dar was polishing his sword in front of his tent; so focused was he on scrubbing away a spot of rust that he didn't even see them approach. Cor cleared his throat, and he looked up. "Ah! Your Highness and Your Ladyship. Such a pleasure to see you up and about, Lady Aravis."

"Thank you, Dar," she said, gratified.

"And it is equally pleasing to hear that your spunk and strong lungs have gone back to work as well!"

She flushed painfully and looked down at her feet.

"We should talk about…well…you know," Cor broke in, diverting the attention from Aravis. "Have you seen Corin?"

Dar nodded. "He told me to tell you, and I quote, 'Bugger your meeting, Cor, it sounds dull.'"

"…Ah."

"I gather he won't be joining us, sire?"

"No. No, he won't."

"Well, then." Dar motioned to Ram. "Ram, my friend, find the lady Aravis a seat to rest upon, and we shall seek out a place to confer together."

Big, red-bearded Ram tucked a three-legged stool under his arm and the four of them went off into the gardens, eventually finding a cool, shady place under a spreading oak that was surrounded by ivy-covered stone walls. Ram set the stool among the roots and Aravis settled down on it, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her upper lip.

"Now that I have you both here," Dar said, "I can explain in more detail."

"In _full_ detail," Cor said demandingly.

"That is not going to happen, sire," Dar answered firmly. "I am under strict instructions. What I am about to disclose to you both is, for all intents and purposes, a state secret, and I can tell you no more than is strictly necessary."

Aravis had been watching Cor while Dar spoke, and she saw his eyes flicker uncertainly to Ram, who stood behind Dar like a giant ginger shadow.

"Ram is quite allowed to be here," Dar said, noticing Cor's hesitation. "He is one of my best men and is granted certain…privileges as a result."

Cor's eyebrows shot up into his red-gold hair, and Aravis glanced at Ram, whose ruddy face was impassive. "Very well, then," he said at last.

Dar nodded and folded his arms. Aravis recognized the pose—it was the one he always took before launching into a story. She put her hands in her lap and listened closely.

"Do you remember your cousin Finn?" he asked Cor. "A distant relation on your father's side."

Cor furrowed his brow and thought. While he struggled to recall the name, Aravis said, "From which house?"

"Oh, the house of Bogton, to be sure."

Cor frowned. "Bogton? That is a _very_ distant relation, then."

"Your fourth cousin once removed, to be exact. He is only just younger than your father."

"Yes…I recognize the surname, of course, but 'Finn'? It doesn't ring a bell."

Dar spread his hands out and shrugged. "Nor should it. The only notable thing Finn Bogton has done to deserve recognition is that, at one point, he was in line to inherit your father's throne. As a matter of fact, he still is in that line, but quite far down it by this point."

Cor looked confused. "All right, yes."

"As of now, he is a minor baronet in the southeast, a very unwilling payer of taxes and lord of a stronghold hardly bigger than a boathouse."

"Why the hard luck?"

Dar deferred to Ram, who cleared his throat and said, "His father and grandfather were avid losers of card games, sire."

Cor laughed, then sobered in light of his relations' poor judgment. "So poor Finn Bogton. I feel quite sorry for the man. But why is he so important right now?"

"You won't feel quite so sorry after you hear this," Dar said grimly. "Ram, do tell them what you know—you were around for this before I was."

"Right. Well—as you know, sire, your return from Calormen reorganized the chain of succession, starting with your brother."

"Yes. I seem to remember there being some controversy about that—I felt quite bad."

"Before you returned, the line stood as follows." Ram began counting on his thick fingers. "Prince Corin. Your first cousin the duke of Welsbury. His younger brother Sir Walrick of Welsbury. Your mother's nephew the earl of Lockwood. The earl of Sittingham and then his son, the viscount, and his niece, the baroness of Hammin. And then? Finn, baronet of Bogton."

Cor looked surprised.

"Well, by some unhappy coincidences, Duke Welsbury died of old age shortly after your fifth birthday." Ram began to lower his fingers, marking off the deceased. "Earl Lockwood was next—he caught pneumonia from a winter hunt and died in your seventh year. Sir Walrick lost a shady tournament in Narnia and died of injuries there in your tenth year, and Baroness Hammin died giving birth to her heir, and the babe and her house died with her. By the time you and Corin were nearing your eleventh birthdays, the only ones standing between Finn and the throne were Earl Sittingham, Viscount Sittingham, and Corin himself.

"Earl Sittingham was getting old, and the viscount had a reputation for being weak-chested. The likelihood of Finn succeeding to the throne was very high. Do you follow?"

Cor and Aravis nodded.

"And then, sire, you returned. Corin was removed to second in line, and Finn was made fifth in line. Not too bad in and of itself, but instead of dying out, the Sittinghams found themselves rejuvenated by the return of their lost prince, and both men married (the earl for the third time, and the viscount for the first) and produced a host of new heirs, your cousins Sittingham."

Aravis suppressed a shudder; she and Cor had spent many a dull holiday playing with the Sittingham brood, a motley crew of nearly-identical uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters all screaming and drooling and seeming to desire to tear every page out of every book Cor and Aravis owned. They were a bit older now, but not much; the youngest son was still in a dress, last Aravis had seen.

"Finn is now seventeenth in line for the throne," Ram concluded. "His chances of acting as regent are only slightly better—he is thirteenth in line for that."

"Rotten luck," Cor mused again. "But still…"

"Ah," Dar broke in. "Here you must try to understand the _mindset_ of Finn Bogton. Here you are, so close to the throne of Archenland that you can taste it. The only ones standing between you and absolute power are a fat king, a belligerent prince, a thin old man, and his weakling son. You need only wait. And then—suddenly—the young hero arrives, golden and fresh and seeming to snatch the potential right out of your closing fist. You have lost. Your hope of ascending from a damp stone hut in a hot swamp to the golden seat of Anvard is gone forever."

Aravis shivered despite the warm air, and Cor also looked uncomfortable. "What are you trying to say, Dar?"

Dar eyed him carefully. "I am saying that it did not take Finn Bogton long to decide to assert his claim to the throne.

"He began by convincing several of his more powerful lord-friends that you should be declared unfit to rule on account of your 'foreign education' and 'clear slowness of wit.'"

"I remember that," Cor said grimly.

"When that didn't work, Finn set about trying to prove the Sittingham brood illegitimate, one at a time, by bribing young men to claim they had slept with the Sittingham wives. After all, how could Earl Sittingham still be producing heirs? Well, to prove them wrong, both men had themselves locked in the estate with their wives for a year with only a few female servants to tend them, and by the end of the twelvemonth had two new Sittingham babies, identical to all the others."

Aravis laughed—she hadn't heard that story before!

"Ah, you laugh now," Dar said regretfully. "But when Finn was foiled, he turned to extra-legal means. And here is where you must start listening closely and tucking away in secret places—you must repeat this conversation to no one from here on out. Understood?"

Aravis and Cor nodded breathlessly.

Dar closed his eyes briefly. "We have certain evidence that may prove that Finn began to sabotage the Sittingham family. We believe that he made multiple attempts at poisoning the older children, and several times hired poachers to shoot at grouse near the Sittingham estate and try to 'accidentally' kill one of the heirs."

Aravis gasped despite herself. "How horrible!"

"That is why your royal father invited the Sittinghams to stay in Anvard so many times, Cor," Dar said bluntly. "It was a fear for their safety, rather than a desire for their company."

"And he never told me," Cor said wonderingly.

"State secrets, remember, my boy? There are some things that should be kept even from the ears of the high prince himself."

"Ah."

Ram redirected the conversation. "Obviously, Finn's attempts haven't worked so far. So he's taken a different tack of late."

"And what's that?" Aravis asked curiously, though something told her she didn't really want to know.

"A common movement," Dar answered. "It's small right now, but Finn has made himself seem the beaten underdog, a very empathetic figure to outlaws and disgruntled farmers and ousted guildsmen. They have been active the last few years, recruiting and agitating but remaining very much low-profile—it is very hard to find a cell if you aren't already in one."

"And what do they do?"

Dar shrugged. "Very little at this point, but that's what concerns us—we have rumors that they're planning something big, but there's no way the crown can crack the movement apart without giving away that we're onto them. And then we're lost. We know very little about them as it is—their name, their identifying marks, and their goals are really the only concrete facts we have."

"What is their name?" Cor asked.

"They call themselves the Finnii," Ram replied with a grimace. "The _worst_ name for a rebellion I've ever heard—"

"Yes, it is rather bad," Dar rejoined.

"And their identifying marks?" Aravis asked, a heavy, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Dar looked pointedly at her. "There are several variations, but they are all based on the ancient Bogton arms, a single crimson gryphon with two heads."

Suddenly, the ground seemed to warp and twist around Aravis, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden thoughts and memories and realizations. When she opened them again, she was flat on her back, and Ram and Cor were hovering concernedly above her.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said breathlessly, gripping Cor's hand as he helped her sit up slowly. "I just…got woozy for a moment."

Dar handed her a skin, and she took a gulp of cool red wine to settle her stomach and ease her spinning head. "You looked very pale at the mention of the Finnii, Aravis," he said pointedly.

She nodded, pressing her lips together. "You said—the two-headed gryphon," she said slowly, turning over the image in her mind. "That is the Bogton crest."

"Yes."

"And so the Finnii insignia is the two-headed gryphon…crushing a golden stag in its claws. Is it not?"

Cor looked blankly at her, but Dar and Ram traded glances. "How do you know this?" Dar asked quietly.

_So it is true._ Aravis nodded to herself. "Gyneth. That insignia was in her kitchen—it was on cloak pin she always wore—the two-headed gryphon was a pendant on a necklace she gave Cor." Cor looked startled. "And she had a box in her satchel—it had a dozen of those pendants in it."

Dar looked at Ram again. "Do you remember this at all, Cor?"

"I don't know anything about the box," Cor said, "and I wasn't paying very close attention to the interior of the farmhouse, but…Aravis is right, she did give me a gryphon pendant."

"Do you still have it?" Ram asked urgently.

"I haven't worn it in days," Cor answered, "but it might be in my pocket still—wait—ah, yes, here it is."

He pulled the leather strap from his pocket and dropped it in Ram's waiting palm. Immediately, he and Dar bent over the item, examining it with furrowed brows. Aravis and Cor waited patiently, and soon enough, the two men straightened and fixed them with somber gazes.

"Yes, this rather confirms our fears," Dar said soberly.

"Which are…?" Cor asked.

Ram returned the pendant. "We're now quite sure, sire, that Gyneth and her brothers and father are all Finnii. It was no accident, sire, that Gyneth made herself so amenable to you when you met."

"Finnii?" Cor sputtered. "But she—she was just—a _girl_—"

"Let that be no measure of her capability," Aravis said sharply. "I thought something about her was off—she never liked me, not from the very first."

"No, I imagine she wouldn't've," Dar mused. "Pardon me, my dear, but you do give off an ambience of sharp observation and suspicion, something a subversive radical wouldn't particularly like."

Aravis flushed.

"A 'subversive radical,'" Cor repeated, looking confused. "Are the Finnii particularly so?"

"Well, common folk agitating for a complete change of the law of succession can only be so conservative," Dar said dryly. "But yes, sire, I do think you're on to something here—the Finnii in and of themselves are far less radical of a movement than one might see in another kingdom. But there are pockets here and there of very dangerous cells, ones that are actively seeking to destroy the existing line. The best way to set Finn Bogton on the throne, as they see it, is to…well, sire, if I may be completely frank—the fastest way to crown Finn Bogton is to murder you and your brother. Then the Maegenhart line dies out with your father, allowing Finn to make a stronger claim against the Sittinghams."

Aravis threw a glance at Cor. His face was impassive as he nodded, but his cheeks were ashen. "I see," he said calmly. "So Gyneth was clearly of this persuasion."

"We think so."

"That would explain why the bandits always knew where we were," Aravis said. "And why she tried to kill me when I insinuated I knew about the Finnii—and then why she disappeared with the bandits."

"Indeed." Ram inclined his head. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but you did us quite a favor—flushed the pheasant from the furze, so to speak."

Aravis smiled at him.

"So what are we to do?" Cor asked Dar. "I must complete my fledgling year or forfeit my throne. And Corin is ineligible to rule if he doesn't complete one, either. But if we're both murdered—"

"Ah, yes—there's the sticking point," Dar replied, rubbing his hands together. "The Finnii think that if they can't murder you, they can at least frighten you and Corin into abdicating."

"_That_ will never happen," Cor said hotly. He slammed his fist into his palm to emphasize the point, and Dar patted his shoulder.

"I would never expect you to give in out of sheer cowardice," he said soothingly. "So the only solution is to outsmart them. Gyneth's word and description of you and Corin are all they have to go on, other than those terribly outdated royal portraits."

"I'll grow my beard back," Cor said eagerly, grinning at Aravis. "It'll hide my scratch marks, and Corin and I look so much more alike with them."

"Better yet," said Dar, "you grow yours and I'll have Corin shave his off."

"Very clever," Cor agreed.

"And then," Ram broke in, "here's where you must start making sacrifices, sire. You will be safe at Roscommon, but it is a two-week journey from here, and the land in between is rife with Finnii. Gyneth is with them now, and she knows where we are headed."

"So we must split up the companions and take separate routes to Roscommon," Aravis said. "It seems quite obvious to me."

"Exactly!" Dar answered. "Have Corin, masquerading as Cor, leading one band, and Cor, masquerading as Corin, leading the other."

Cor started to laugh. "The last time we did this, Father had us both sent to our chambers without supper."

"This is more than a game," Dar assured him. "So we must make the transformation more convincing. If we really were to split up the band, how would it be divided?"

"I would take the strongest men," Cor answered matter-of-factly. "And Aravis."

"Exactly," Dar said as Aravis blushed and elbowed Cor in the ribs. "So we must do the opposite."

"Ye—_what_?"

"Give Corin Aravis and the strongest men, and trade horses. Raider is very recognizable."

"But—but…Raider will _kill_ Corin!" Cor protested. "And give him Aravis? Never!"

Aravis lifted her hand, and Dar and Cor fell silent at once. "What if I dressed as a man and went with Cor?" she suggested. "Ram, I saw that one of your men has long hair the same color as mine. Of course, _I _would know he was not a Calormene, but we all look the same to you Archenlanders, don't we? He might dress in my clothes. That way, Corin will look as though he has both women with him, which is logical because he has more men to protect them."

"Not that you especially need it—"

"Thank you—"

"No, that is a very keen observation, my lady." Ram looked at Dar. "I shall ask Stig if he wouldn't mind dressing like a woman for a few weeks."

"I'll find him a few of my frocks," Aravis said. "Heaven knows I wouldn't mind it."

"And we'll find you some tunics and trousers and a sturdy pair of boots," Dar assured her. "And a peasant's hood for your head. You'll be quite warm, I'm afraid, but it will hide your hair and shadow your face."

"It is nothing I am incapable of enduring, I assure you," Aravis said dryly.

Dar nodded and clapped his hands together again. "There we have it. Sire, you must inform Corin of our decision—I'll work out the separate routes tonight, and in the morning—if her ladyship is feeling up to it, that is—" He inclined his head to Aravis, who smiled. "—in the morning, we can divide our resources as you see fit."

Cor put his shoulders back and gave a decisive nod. "I think we shall be quite safe now, thanks to you, Dar and Ram."

"It is only my duty," Ram said as Dar bowed deeply.

Aravis allowed Cor to help her up, but she watched Ram closely. "You say it is your duty," she said slowly. "Why is that? I thought you were one of Dar's drinking fellows."

Dar laughed. "Nothing escapes you, dear Aravis. Well, what can I say? State secrets, my delightful children. I have disclosed to you all I can, and will say no more."

"But _Dar_—" Cor sputtered.

"Perhaps I'll tell you when you're king, Cor," he replied with a grin. "But only then."

Aravis could tell that, even though Cor was the high prince, Dar had ended the conversation, so she curtsied to both Ram and Dar and led Cor away, patting his trembling arm. "All in due time," she assured him. "Meanwhile, watch them both very closely…"


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

_A/N: Wow—300 reviews! Thank you so much, guys…it's such an honor writing for you all! You make ficcing more than worth it. And to everyone who's been with this story since the beginning—a special thank you for sticking with me through such a long hiatus and then welcoming me so warmly back into the fandom. :) ~Sushi_

_Chapter Twenty-Seven_

Her conversation with Ram and Dar had left much for Aravis's brain to digest, and the many startling facts she had learned were enough to push her argument with Hana to the back of her mind. As she and Cor wandered through the gardens afterwards, though, they came suddenly across Hana and Corin—Hana looked terrible, with red puffy eyes and a swollen nose, and Corin was walking alongside her, looking woefully at a loss. The moment the pair saw Aravis, though, Hana turned her face away and went quickly down another path, and Corin scarcely spared Aravis the courtesy of a dark glare before hurrying after her.

"What was that about?" Cor said in bewilderment.

Aravis found her throat closed off, so she merely shook her head. Cor knew better than to ask again, so instead he tucked her arm a little closer and began lecturing at length about the impact of the imported hedgerow on native flora.

The rest of the day was spent in a languorous haze. It would have been a perfect day for Aravis, had she not felt the burn of guilt deep in her gut. Every time she made Cor laugh, or when she received a brisk nuzzle from Inga, or even when she went to read from the book of fairy tales, Hana's stricken face swam into her field of vision and soured her relaxation. When suppertime rolled around and the hermit served them hearty vegetable stew and strawberry shortcake, she could only take a few bites before that, too, turned to ash in her mouth.

The worst part of it was that Hana was not brooding about because of it. She still looked afflicted, but her hysteria had ebbed into exhaustion, and she was giving tired little smiles to Corin and Dar who were regaling her with the tale of the time they cornered a mountain bear in a gully.

"You look weary," Cor said, nudging the arm that was supporting Aravis's fork. "Are you sure you can travel tomorrow?"

Rousing herself with an effort, Aravis seized upon the excuse he was providing her. "Yes, I can travel tomorrow…but I really am very weary tonight."

So she escaped back up to the hermit's loft early. Her sleep was restless but long, and she awoke in the fog that often accompanies a sudden arousal from deep sleep. Cor was hovering over her.

"Finally, you're awake," he said. "I've been standing here for_ever_."

"You could have prodded me or something," she said, trying to put as much annoyance into her groggy voice as she could.

"And risk losing a limb? Never." He dropped an armload of cloth on her legs. "Your wardrobe, milady."

"You look scruffy," she observed dryly as she sat up and inspected the articles of men's clothing he had brought her.

"I'm merely following orders," he replied. "I am growing my beard back with _relish_. I love my beard."

"You're also in an especially chipper mood today."

"Today I go off on a grand adventure _and_ get rid of my brother for a fortnight," he answered broadly, throwing open the shutters with a flourish. "Give me one reason to be glum."

Aravis had to smile a bit, and she pulled the trousers on under her shift and stood up, adjusting the drawstring as she went. "Stay there and don't turn around," she commanded him, and he obediently hid his face in his arms as she took off her shift and donned a soft white shirt with delicate embroidery along the collar. Over this, she drew a dark green tunic that swallowed up her feminine figure entirely.

"You'll need a belt," Cor said as he turned around. "Men carry their swords on their hip, not on their saddle."

She held out her hand for the belt he was giving her and buckled it around her waist. "Better?"

"You still look like Aravis to me," he said skeptically.

"I'll always look like Aravis to you. Give me those boots—" She stepped into the men's boots and laced them up thoroughly. They were much sturdier than women's shoes, and the heel gave her an extra inch or two of height.

"Better," Cor wavered.

"And the cowl."

He handed her the matching hood, and she pulled it over her head and arranged it so it lay inconspicuously across her narrow shoulders and shadowed her features.

"Your plait is hanging out from under it. Rather a giveaway, I would think. Let me try to tuck it up—"

Cor reached up behind her and attempted to shove her long plait up under the hood, but it was no use. Aravis pulled the hood off and began to comb out her hair, shaking it over one shoulder. "Have you got a pair of scissors?"

"No, but I've got a sharp knife. Why?"

"We'll have to trim my hair until it is hidden under the hood."

"_Cut your hair_?" Cor looked horrified at the thought. "No, Aravis—I—no!"

"Oh, don't be so silly. It's my hair, isn't it?"

"But—I—it's so—I can't—"

"Well, I'll do it, then. Give me the knife."

Cor wavered a few more moments, but at last he produced the knife, though Aravis had to tug it from his grasp. "I thought you liked your hair," he said mournfully as she combed a few last tangles from it.

"I do, when I have someone else to fix it up for me. It's quite inconvenient now."

"At least let me do it for you," he said hastily as she went to lop a large hank off. "Then it will be a straight cut."

She eyed him warily, then handed back the knife and shook her dark locks back over her shoulders. The curly ends reached almost to her hips, and when it was clean and well cared-for, it truly was a sight to behold. Now, though, it had the dullness of trail dust and a lack of brushing, and she found that she had no qualms about cutting a good amount of it off.

Cor passed a hand through it, his fingers skimming the back of her neck, and then seized a large section of it. Aravis felt a sharp tug; loose, dark curls wafted to the ground and piled up around her feet.

"_I_ liked your hair," he said at last, wiping the knife on his pant leg.

Aravis ran her hand through her hair, now falling just past her shoulder blades. Her head felt suddenly freer, and she couldn't help but laugh, saying, "I feel so light!"

She plaited it up again and tied it securely. This time, the hood covered everything, and she turned to Cor with her hands out expectantly. "Well? Do I look like a man?"

"Never," he said stubbornly.

Aravis sighed. "Why am I even bothering to ask you? Come along, the day isn't getting any younger."

Cor huffed and followed her down the ladder into the main room of the hermit's hut. The sun was just peeking above the tips of the trees, still orange in its youth, but already the companions had packed up all the tents and were loading up the horses.

Dar met up with them as they headed toward the fire where Romith was dishing out hot kippers and flatcakes.

"Ah, I see you have taken to your new identity with gusto!" he said to Aravis, grinning.

Aravis put a swagger in her step. "Indeed!"

"And I trust Your Highness is ready to divvy up the companions?"

"Divvy away, Dar. I put my life in your hands."

Dar inclined his head. "Some may say that is a mistake, sire. But I have decided that you and Aravis—_Stig_, I quite apologize—shall be accompanied by Ram, Sir Borran, and my brother. Ram is an excellent cook, among his many other admirable qualities."

Cor flinched at the mention of Darrin, and Aravis cleared her throat. "It shall be a rather quiet company, I suppose."

Dar laughed. "I do apologize. But one would expect a young man to surround himself with noisy friends, would he not? It will be quite the opposite of what the Finnii expect."

Cor sighed. "I'll have to trust you at your word, Dar. Do what you will. I expect you've spoken to Corin already?"

"Yes—he does not seem terribly concerned about the whole thing. Stig, however, is rather less enthused about wearing a frock for the next fortnight."

"Well, how would he like to wear one for his whole life?" Aravis said dryly.

"Point taken. Well, dear children, do eat a hearty breakfast and say farewell to your friend—together in Roscommon, eh?"

Cor seized Dar's hand and shook it warmly. "Thank you, Dar—and I mean it. We wouldn't be here without you."

"Only doing my duty," the man answered with surprising humility. "Aravis, my dear, do keep him in line, won't you?"

"Always."

"That's my girl. Well—eat up—I have much to do—see you in a fortnight!"

And with that, Dar waved and went off, and Aravis and Cor ate quickly. As they were finishing their cups of hot, strong tea, they heard Dar's voice, and the sense of general chaos filling the gardens ceased suddenly as most of the occupants swung up onto their mounts. Aravis felt a compulsive desire to say a tearful goodbye to each of them, but then she reminded herself that they would only be apart for a fortnight, at most, and that she most certainly could do with a break from them—Corin and Hana in particular. Every look she sent their way was met with a stony ignorance, as if they had both decided that dealing with her was too emotionally taxing for them at the moment.

In fact, she thought as she drained the dregs of her tea and scrubbed the mug out with a handful of sand, it would be rather nice to spend a few weeks with only Cor to keep her company. Of course—and here she grimaced—she would undoubtedly be forced to deal with Darrin sometime over those weeks. The thought of having such a conversation with him made her stomach clench, and Inga nipped her arm as she pulled too tight on the saddle cinch.

"Thank you," Cor said, his voice breaking her concentration. She turned; he was speaking to the hermit and shaking his hand warmly. "The crown—I mean, _I_—am indebted to you. If there's anything you ever need—"

The hermit broke him off by a wave of one of his thin hands. "I am a hermit, dear boy—I am happy with everything I have. In fact, I have been blessed with more than I could ever need."

The man's words had a great impact on Cor, Aravis could tell; he gazed about the plain but pleasant surroundings, then looked back at the hermit and gave a small smile.

"Come along, Stig, up you get!"

Ram's voice came boisterously from where the big, ginger man was striding towards Aravis. Before she could react, he was hoisting her up into the saddle, and Inga gave a cross whicker which Aravis would have echoed if she could.

"Well, this will be a break from the dullness for you, milady," said Darrin with a smile, urging his big grey toward her as Ram mounted up.

Aravis's throat would not work for a moment, and she stammered out a noncommittal reply that was met with a slightly bemused nod from Darrin. _Phew_, she thought with a queer form of relief—_if nothing else, I can blunder my way out of his heart. No upstanding lord wants a wife who can't form simple sentences._

With that thought cheering her a bit, Aravis smiled at Cor as he and Borran swung up. "Together in Roscommon," Cor said to her, and then they pointed their faces to the east and set off.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

_Chapter Twenty-Eight_

It was, indeed, a quiet company that picked its way northeast. The others had an easier time of it—they were traveling southeast and skirting around the northern mountains—but Cor, Aravis, Borran, Darrin, and Ram were riding straight through the cool, misty forests of the foothills, their horses sliding about on the slippery rocks underfoot.

Most of their talk centered around plans for making camp that night or observations about their new surroundings; every once in a while, Darrin or Cor would try to make conversation with Aravis, but it was stilted and awkward, and Aravis found herself longing for their arrival at Roscommon where she would at least have Lady Roscommon to talk to, if Hana still refused.

Their nights weren't as terrible, luckily. Someone would always get up after dinner and take another on a patrol into the woods around the camp, checking for signs that they were being watched or followed. While the two men were gone, it was somewhat easier to make polite conversation with the two that were left. Aravis quickly decided that her favorite combination was Ram and Cor; Borran was too quiet, and Darrin had a disconcerting habit of carrying on discussions like she was the only one there, much to Cor's chagrin.

Ram, Aravis was learning, was an extraordinarily gifted man; she had assumed based on his appearance that he was simpleminded and boisterous, but it turned out he was far from it—he hadn't said as much, but he spoke like an educated man, and Aravis wondered if he hadn't had a private tutor or even attended the Royal Institution of Scholars in the southeast for a time. When she asked him about it one night, though, he only smiled and said, "In due time, my lady."

Finally, there came a night, drizzly and hot, that it was Cor's turn to go off with Ram and inspect the woods around them. Borran made sure the fire was burning the best it could considering the weather then, glancing under his hood at Darrin and Aravis, indicated that he was going to join the other men to discuss the route they would continue to take.

Aravis swallowed convulsively as he disappeared into the darkness and drew her cloak tighter about her. Unfortunately, Darrin seemed to mistake her defensive movement for one of cold, and it was only moments before he had swept his own cloak off and draped it over her shoulders. "Oh, no," she said quickly, "that's really not necessary—"

"Nonsense. You must be wet to the skin."

She really didn't want him thinking about her skin. "No, really, Darrin, I'm not—I'm a bit warm, actually—"

Only then did he acquiesce to take the cloak back, but as he swung it back over his own shoulders, he sat next to her on the fallen log and took her hand in his before she had a chance to draw it back under her cloak.

"We haven't been alone in weeks," he said frankly.

Aravis couldn't free her hand without seeming rude, so she let it sit in his grasp. "I have been otherwise occupied, you know."

He was quiet for a moment, and she held her breath. "Well, shall we remedy that?"

"We already are."

"Come, Aravis, you know what I mean."

Aravis chewed her lip to stall for time. "Yes," she said vaguely.

He squeezed her hand in response. "You are a remarkable young woman. Did you know that?"

"You certainly seem to think so," she replied with false lightheartedness.

"I do indeed. You are the first lady to…well, how shall I say it…"

_Don't say it, don't say it,_ she begged him silently.

"…The first lady in a _very_ long while to make me feel young again. You have such spirit, Aravis…you energize me and make me feel like my life is dynamic again…"

"You're not that old," she said laughingly. "You're too hard on yourself."

"No—Aravis. Look at me."

Aravis bit down very hard on her cheek as she turned to face him.

He touched her chin. "I would like it very much, Aravis," he said slowly, "if someday, after all this is over, you would come back to Boldenhal with me."

"Well, I would certainly like to visit you—"

"Not to visit, my dear Aravis. Boldenhal has been without a mistress for…far too long. I want you to come back with me—as my lady wife."

Aravis's fake smile slid off her face, and she turned away with little attempt to hide her bewilderment. "You can find much better women for that job elsewhere, Darrin."

"You do not do yourself justice."

She slipped her hand out of his. "Darrin, I…I just—I don't think I'm fit to be your wife—I'd shame you, I'm sure…"

"Nonsense!" He took both her hands in his and held on firmly so Aravis couldn't pull away. "You are fiery, and away from Anvard, you needn't fear offending anyone important…"

Aravis had to bite down on her tongue to keep from saying what she wanted to.

"Come, Aravis…say you'll wed me and be lady of Boldenhal. Aravis, my sweet…"

The way he was holding her hands gave Aravis no choice but to look in his face—in doing so, she found herself wilting under his gaze. Really, who was she to reject his proposal? She wasn't likely to get a better one…and besides. What waited for her in Anvard at the end of the twelvemonth? A wedding and a coronation to plan, yes, and then…nothing. Cor's new queen would take on all her old responsibilities. Darrin knew that.

The thought of not being needed in the palace made her breath catch in her throat. "All right," she heard herself saying almost breathlessly—quickly, as if Darrin might change his mind. "But I need to think about it for a while first. You will have my answer when we reach Roscommon."

Darrin clearly wasn't happy with her answer, but he nodded gravely and bring her hand up to his lips.

At this moment, Cor came back, and Aravis got up and moved away from Darrin like he was a coal that had singed her. Borran and Ram were close behind, and though they acted like nothing was amiss, Aravis could feel Cor's eyes on her for the rest of the night.

The next evening, Ram took Darrin out on reconnaissance, leaving Aravis alone with Cor and Borran. Ram had just finished telling a highly amusing story about the time Dar got so wickedly drunk he thought the barkeep's large rear end was another mead barrel and duly tried to fill his mug from it, and Cor was still chuckling slightly as he stirred up the fire. Borran declined the offer of a last cup of tea from Aravis, then spread out his blanket a ways from the fire and curled up in it. A few minutes later, soft snores were heard emanating from the mound of man and blanket.

Cor looked over at Aravis, and she felt his gaze before she saw it. "What?" she asked.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I was just wondering…"

"What Darrin said?"

She could see his flush even in the light of the fire. "Do you blame me for being curious? I need to know if I have to reassign him or anything—"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said briskly. "Don't do anything of the sort on my account."

Cor was silent for a moment. "Well? What did he say?"

"He asked me to marry him." She said it with more indifference than she felt.

He gave a low whistle and threw a stick onto the fire. "And?"

"And…I said I'd think about it."

"_Think_? Aravis, I thought—but you said—_I_—"

She shrugged it off, wringing her dirt-encrusted hands in the hem of her cloak. "I know what I said. But someday I'm going to have to stop gadding about like this and settle down like a proper adult. How many noblemen are going to want to marry me after this year? When I've spent an unprecedented amount of time unchaperoned in men's company?"

Cor was dying to say something, she could tell, but he gnawed on his lip instead and stayed silent.

She sighed. "I'm trying to be realistic. It's likely to be the best offer I'll ge—"

"Don't talk about yourself that way." His tone was surprisingly sharp, and Aravis looked at him with some confusion; he was jabbing the fire with another stick.

"I didn't mean to upset you…"

He threw the stick into the flames. "Well, Aravis, lately you seem to think you have nothing to recommend you to men other than your honor and how daintily you can pour a cup of tea. I think that's _rubbish_—utter rubbish. And I won't stand to hear you say it."

Aravis found herself speechless for a time. Finally, she had the presence of mind to say, "I'm glad you feel that way. But apparently, Darrin agrees. And unless you wish to make a counter-proposal, I'm afraid I have no choice."

Cor frowned deeply but said nothing.

"If it's my leaving that worries you," she said, moving over to sit next to him, "I'll gladly wait until after your wedding and coronation—it'll be a nice, smooth transition." She put his arm around her shoulder, but he shook it off bitterly and stood up.

"I just—I hate to see…" He trailed off and shrugged like he was trying to rid himself of a bothersome ache.

Aravis retreated to her seat and wrapped her cloak about her as a brisk wind shook some raindrops out of the trees above their heads. Cor made a move as though to go over to her, but he changed his mind and clumsily compensated by grabbing his bedroll and rolling it out. "Goodnight," he said brusquely, and lay down, turning his back to her.

The idea of being lady of Boldenhal became both more odious and more appealing to Aravis at that moment. Her stomach convulsed with emotions she couldn't even begin to understand, and she buried her face in her arms, so when Ram and Darrin came back all they saw was a young girl who had fallen asleep waiting for them to return.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

_A/N: Thanks for the well wishes, everyone! Both my procedures went well, though I'm quite sore and still slightly anaesthetized. On the plus side—been watching quite a lot of _Sherlock_ and _Doctor Who_! What's not to like?_

_Chapter Twenty-Nine_

The days that followed were subdued ones. Aravis felt inexplicably caught between Cor and Darrin; if one of them perceived her as giving more attention to the other, they would become politely distant, and it soon became impossible to maintain any sort of genial conversation. As far as she could guess, Cor was bitter and resentful towards Darrin for daring to ask to marry a woman so much his junior and for doing it in the middle of a long journey—as for Darrin, he seemed to be taking offense at Cor's cool treatment of him and was turning it back on him.

_I wish I could be rid of _both_ of them! _Aravis found herself thinking on more than one occasion. The tension was getting to the point where even Borran and Ram were feeling it—when Ram asked her if she knew what was going on, Aravis had to feign ignorance.

Finally, one day at luncheon, there was silence as everyone ate their bread and cheese.

"I could use another spot of tea," Cor said.

No one stirred. Darrin was the closest to the pot, but he acted as if he hadn't heard anything.

"Pass me the kettle?" Cor said again, directing his question to Borran.

Borran was completely absorbed in his maps and didn't realize he was being asked.

"Darrin," Aravis said crossly.

He looked up. "What is it?"

"Cor would like you to pass him the tea kettle."

Darrin pushed the kettle closer to Cor, who still couldn't reach it.

"Ram," he pleaded. Ram, who stood apart from the rest of them and was rummaging in his saddlebags, looked up in bewilderment.

"_Darrin_!" Aravis snapped.

"Yes?"

Her temper getting the best of her, Aravis jumped to her feet, letting her own mug roll around in the damp dirt by her boots. "You are acting like _children!_" she exclaimed. "I should send you both home for time-outs—you'd never know you're grown men!"

"I didn't do anything," Cor said indignantly. "I'll have you know _Darrin_ was—"

"Please, sire! You insult me."

"Oh _really_—"

Aravis growled in annoyance and stomped off to where Inga stood with her head high, ears pricked forward. "_Men_," she hissed, roughly rubbing the animal's long face.

Suddenly, Ram's head whipped around and he stood stock still, staring into the forest around them, shadowy despite the afternoon sun.

"What is i—"

"_Sshh_," he said harshly, holding a large hand out for emphasis. Aravis bit her tongue. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Horses," he answered with a grim look back at the companions. "Quickly—stamp out the fire. Borran, take the lunch things—quiet, like—come, sire, you must mount up and be ready to ride, your life may depend on it."

All hint of argument disappeared as everyone snapped to it. Aravis was the first one mounted, and Inga stood poised and ready as the other men swung up into their saddles, too. Ram took the lead, guiding his horse through the trees at a quick but noiseless speed. The layers of damp leaves and pine needles under their horses' hooves muffled the sound of their passage, but every sound that did emit from their pale-faced little band seemed ten times louder than usual. Aravis found herself holding her breath.

A twig cracked behind them and to the left. Her hands shaking, Aravis drew her claymore as slowly as she could. Ram held out a hand and started to move faster.

_WhsshhTTT—_

Its red fletching quivering, a small dark arrow came whizzing out of the shadows and buried itself in the bark of a tree near Ram's head.

The next few moments were all a blur.

The forest erupted in the sounds of men and horses screaming. Aravis grabbed for Inga's reins and went to turn her about, but the nag had another idea altogether; she took the bit into her teeth and wrenched it from Aravis's grasp, then arched her neck and sank her long, yellow fangs into the rump of Cor's horse. The pretty dun palfrey screamed in pain and took off at a flat gallop, and before Aravis could stop her, Inga had also slammed her way free of Ram and Darrin and was running unchecked, her grey mane streaming out and lashing tears into Aravis's eyes.

Jostled and unbalanced as she was, it took Aravis a while to find the reins again and pull back quickly, but Inga bucked violently, knocking her off-balance again, and continued to gallop pell-mell through brush and low-hanging branches. One pine tree caught Aravis so hard as they passed beneath it that it left a gash, and the warm blood trickled down her temple and mingled with the sweat on her face.

"Slow _down_, you stupid animal—" She tried pulling on Inga's mane, but the beast acted like she wasn't even there.

Finally, Aravis had had enough. Her claymore was balanced precariously on her saddle, and she seized it with one hand, turned, and smacked Inga's exposed rump with the flat side of it.

This got Inga's notice.

The horse squealed, snorted, and then—when Aravis laid the sword on her again—came to a thundering halt and gave a mighty buck. Aravis lost her grip and flew from the saddle, landing hard on the damp ground. The grey sky spun overhead.

_This must be what it feels like to die_, she thought for a split second before air came rushing back into her lungs.

Inga was nearby, prancing around her and snorting agitatedly. Blood streamed from her rump.

"You stupid, stupid animal," Aravis wheezed, struggling to her feet and seizing Inga's bridle.

The horse gave her a long, cool look with one dark eye and then butted her so hard she fell again, scraping her hands up. "I'll have you ground into carrion, I swear it," she grunted painfully.

Inga stomped a back hoof and looked away, ears pricked intently. Despite herself, Aravis held very still and listened, too, straining to hear what it was Inga had noticed.

_A distant shout._

Fear hit Aravis for the first time, landing solidly in her stomach. Her anger with Inga had clouded her common sense, but now as she thought back, she realized that they had been in extraordinary danger. The man—woman—child, even—who had fired that arrow could have done so a thousand times before and been accurate.

She swallowed the bile that rose into her throat and scrambled to her feet. Her claymore was lying in the leaves a few meters away, and she snatched it up before going back and taking Inga by the bridle again. This time, the horse seemed to approve of her actions, because she went quietly, trotting in time with Aravis's stumbling steps. Off in the distance there was an ancient grey oak with huge, gnarly roots; Aravis headed there, pulling Inga into the biggest hollow she could find and wedging herself all the way back. Inga sniffed for a moment at the roots, nibbling at some exposed grass, and then—most uncharacteristically—dropped down into a resting position, nearly crushing one of Aravis's saddlebags in the process.

Aravis bit her lips hard but took the edge of her cloak and wiped the dribbling blood from Inga's hindquarters. With Inga hunkered down like she was, she was very effectively hidden; even someone looking for a horse and rider wouldn't notice a grey mare huddled between grey roots.

The hours passed. Every noise sounded to Aravis (and, possibly, to Inga, judging by the way her eyes whitened and her ears pricked up) like that of an oncoming horde of murderous Finnii, bent on raping and slaughtering the Highborn Bitch. The face of the man that night kept flashing into her field of vision, making her heart leap into her throat and choke her. "This is ridiculous," she said out loud at one point. Inga turned to glance at her, keeping one alert ear trained on the forest around them. "Why am I afraid of a dead man?" But she kept imagining being surrounded by Finnii and seeing that face under each bandanna.

Inga whickered at long last, twitched her fine grey pelt, and stood up, emerging from the claustrophobic space.

Aravis followed cautiously. "Are you going to let me ride you again?" she asked dryly. "Or are you just going to do what you want?"

Inga gave her a look that probably said _Of course, silly human, I'll do what I want. I'm Inga. _But she stood still as Aravis mounted painfully and let her take the reins, although Aravis didn't even bother to direct her as she trotted in the direction of the oncoming night. A few times she whickered loudly and flicked her ears, and Aravis drew her claymore, but they went unmolested through the darkening woods.

It was getting to the point where Aravis was ready to find another sheltering tree and resign herself to the fact that she was lost from the men when Inga whinnied again, and this time the sound was answered by a loud whicker and a low voice. Aravis's hand was halfway to her claymore when the glimmer of a fire caught her eye; the shadows of men and horses danced on the trees around her.

"_Aravis_!"

"I am going to give you _quite_ the talking-to," she said tearfully to Cor as he came quickly to her side.

"I hardly deserve such," Darrin replied dryly, and Aravis recognized him as not being Cor with a queer sinking feeling. "Where have you been? We were worried sick."

"Inga ran off with the reins. Where's Cor?"

He offered his assistance as she got down from Inga, but she refused it. "Well, my dear…we thought…well, we thought he might be with you. His horse ran off with him the same time yours did."

Aravis thought back to when Inga bit the poor thing's rump and jostled the animal's head as she took the bridle. "What happened?"

Darrin led her back to the fire, where Ram stood with a cup of hot tea and a honeyed biscuit. Borran took Inga and rubbed her down thoroughly, paying particular attention to the animal's raw backside. "The Finnii," Ram said grimly as Aravis accepted the meal from him. "They must have been following us for a while…"

"Had they guessed…?"

Ram shrugged. "There weren't many of them—we fought them off well, no fatalities for either side. That suggests to me that they were unsure or didn't know at all about our…"

She nodded and drank the tea down in a few gulps, then held her mug out for more. "Are we safe?"

"Safe as we can be," he replied with the same grave tone as he looked about. "We ran them off and split up for a while to throw them off our scent. Unwittingly, my dear girl, you only contributed."

She had to smile a bit at this. "And Cor…he's just lost, I bet."

"Of course. If his mount is any bit as clever as yours, he'll be with us again soon. We needn't worry. We needn't worry."

His repetition of the phrase made Aravis glance up at him; the man's face was lined and tense beneath his red beard, and he looked far from not worrying. Her biscuit turned to lead in her stomach.

"Could I have a pinch of sugar, please?" she asked after a pause.

Ram looked curiously at her, but he opened the small pouch of precious spice to her. Aravis dipped her fingers in and sprinkled a dash across her palm; she then went over to Inga, who lifted her head from the pile of oats Borran had laid out for her as she approached.

"You're a halfwit and I absolutely loathe you," she said quietly, holding out her hand, "but you're terribly clever and a damn good animal."

Inga snorted in a way that might have meant _You, too_, but then she gently placed her nose in Aravis's hand and mouthed the sugar up.

"And now all we do is wait," Aravis said to the men as she went back to the fire. "Cor will turn up tomorrow, I just know it."


	30. Chapter Thirty

_Chapter Thirty_

Cor did not turn up the next day.

Aravis and the men discussed it and agreed that he likely got himself a bit lost and then fell asleep, and would be back the next morning with a host of thin excuses to explain his lengthy absence. It was better for them to think this way; Aravis knew that if they started contemplating the reality of the situation, all would be lost.

Still, by the evening of the first day, Borran said in a croaky voice that the rainy season was fast approaching and they had lost too much time at the hermit's and hiding from the Finnii to delay any longer.

"We can't go on without him," Aravis said in distress.

Ram agreed with her. "What if he is searching for us? Moving our position will only prolong the problem, not solve it."

Darrin spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "If we get caught in the rainy season, all possibility of him finding us is lost—the rain will wash away our tracks and make the passage through Farr Valley impossible. We can make our way toward Roscommon, and he knows which direction to go in."

Aravis chewed her lip. "I just—I can't—"

"The prince has a good head on his shoulders," Darrin said bracingly. "There's no sense in wandering around, getting ourselves lost in looking for him when he likely is heading to Roscommon as we speak."

She knew she didn't have a choice; still, worry gnawed at her stomach as they set off for the east, the men occasionally glancing at the grey sky overhead.

The next day, still no sign of Cor.

"We must keep going," Borran insisted, looking at his maps with a spider web of frown lines wrinkling his forehead.

And so they did. As the day wore on, Aravis entered a state of barely-contained panic; it wasn't right to go on without Cor, but then again, she was enough of a politician to know that unrestrained hysteria would only exacerbate the problem at hand. The gash on her temple throbbed with each heartbeat, and it occurred to her that Cor might have been injured so badly he couldn't move, and was languishing somewhere and hoping beyond reason that they might find him. Visions of him covered in blood and writhing in the dirt in some darkened ditch filled her head; she had seen the way he looked when he fell from a horse before, and that ashen expression hovered in front of her wherever she looked.

She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on Inga's reins as if to spin her around and gallop off in search of him, but Inga snorted and champed at the bit, threatening to wrest control away from her again.

Sleep came hard that night. Cor's tortured, blood-streaked face haunted her dreams, though sometime after midnight his fair skin melted into the dusky one of Kidrash Tarkaan, his wild dark eyes boring into Aravis's soul as he flayed her alive and disappeared into the roar of a sandstorm.

She woke with a start.

It was growing light out, just after dawn, and there was a thin sheen of dew on the leaves around them. Ram was sitting watch, and he leaned heavily on his sword, his eyelids drooping.

Aravis's heart was racing still from the dream, though the terror was slowly draining away; there would be no more sleep for her today. She sat up slowly, and Ram smiled groggily at her. "Father Christmas paid us a visit last night."

She rubbed her eyes and looked quizzically at him. In response, Ram inclined his head toward a pile of blankets and blond hair that hadn't been there when she fell asleep. It took her a few minutes of sleepy staring for the meaning of this nondescript little bundle, but when she did, she cried out so loudly that all the men woke with a start.

"_Cor_!"

There were a few moments of chaos as everyone was roused from their bedrolls, reaching clumsily for damp weapons, but before she even knew what was going on, Aravis had flown to Cor's side and was hitting him with all her might.

"_You—should have—woken me—why—didn't you—come—back—"_

She vaguely felt someone pulling her back, but then Cor had wrapped her up in an embrace so tight she couldn't move her arms to hit him and she realized she was sobbing.

"I thought—_I thought_—" She couldn't even form the words to articulate the horrors that had filled her mind, and she broke away from him and dragged her sleeve across her face, turning away as she trembled from head to toe.

"Well," said Cor from behind her, his voice thick, "I would've stuck around if your stupid horse hadn't bitten mine on the arse."

"And maybe've gotten yourself killed, sire," said Darrin wisely. "They were Finnii—a small band, yes, but a nuisance nonetheless."

"No one hurt?"

"A few bumps and bruises, but nothing serious."

"You got a nice knob on your forehead, though," Cor answered, and it took Aravis a moment to realize he was talking to her.

She turned back, her eyes on his feet, and nodded sheepishly. "Inga ran me into a tree."

"Stupid animal."

It was said with suppressed humor, and Aravis raised her eyes to Cor's face. To her relief, he was pale and tired-looking but bore no visible injuries, and she relaxed, allowed herself a small laugh. "You still should have woken me, though," she said with a botched attempt at sternness as Ram pressed cups of hot tea into their hands.

"You looked so tired. I couldn't do it."

"How did you find us, sire?" Darrin asked.

Cor took a seat by the fire that Ram had stirred up and drank deeply of his tea. "The horse I rode took such a fright after Aravis's horse nipped it that it set off galloping in the wrong direction. It was mad with fright—I tried to stop it, but then it pulled up lame, and I got off and led it back the direction I thought we had come. _Then_ I realized I'd seen the same tree about a dozen times. So I waited for daylight—the horse was still lame, so it took me a while to catch up with you."

"The horse got a pebble under its shoe," Ram explained. "I got it sorted."

"So you _were_ just lost," Darrin chuckled.

Cor laughed, too. "I know, Darrin—at the very least, when I am king, I will have no delusions about my sense of direction."

Aravis, who had placed herself on Cor's right, happily downed mugs of tea and spoonfuls of the porridge that Ram had begun ladling out. The knot in her stomach had loosened and disappeared into a glow of satisfaction, and she fancied that even Inga was smiling.

* * *

The rains started the next day. It began with a roll of distant thunder, then a wink of lightning, and the travelers scarcely had time to pull up the hoods of their cloaks before drops of heavy rain started falling from the low, grey sky. It did not take long for them to get soaked to the skin.

According to Borran's maps, they were only two days' journey from Roscommon, where Corin and Hana and the others would be waiting for them already, but the water running across the wet leaves made the going treacherous—once, Inga slipped and crashed to the ground, crushing Aravis's leg beneath her. Luckily, Aravis escaped with nothing more than a painful bruise, but then Cor demanded that the company's pace be slackened.

The journey through Farr Valley frightened even Aravis, a veteran of long, perilous voyages. The valley was really little more than a cleft in the foothills; in the dry seasons it was a rocky but pleasant half-day excursion, but in the rain, the rocks turned lethally slippery, and it took them all day to make it up the second side.

The nights were miserable. Aravis, wet and cold, slept fitfully and dreamt of snowstorms and the sea and drowning in rivers of snakes and Gyneth's purple eyes watching her from the shadowy woods.

At least the tension between Darrin and Cor had abated a bit—Darrin's dutiful nature had won over, at least for the time being, and he was too relieved at having his prince safely under his protection again to make a fuss about the decision Aravis would have to make soon. She welcomed the respite.

Finally they came out of the thick forest. The rolling farmland drowning in rainwater signified that they were close to Roscommon; ordinarily, Aravis would have been ecstatic, but she was too cold and tired to care much anymore, and she stared mostly at Inga's neck as the water dripped off her nose and beaded up on her eyelashes.

"Ah!"

Borran was the one who had spoken, and Aravis looked around in confusion—Borran never spoke unless spoken to—but then she saw it: rising up out of the rain and dense fog was the distant shadow of a brownstone fortress. The cool wind blowing from the east buffeted the thick mists, and from time to time Aravis caught sight of the stony bluff the fortress was built on; the ramparts were mossy and covered in thick green vines.

"This is Roscommon," Cor told Aravis, who nodded.

They passed neat peasants' huts and farmers' homes as they approached the estate walls. The small buildings were cozy looking in the cold, wet weather, and most of them had sheds and gardens with spots of green in them. Aravis couldn't help but wish she was on the other side of those bolted doors, laughing and huddling with Cor and Corin and Hana, dry hair, and a goblet of hot mead. _Just a few minutes,_ she told herself.

The path up to the gatehouse was muddy and slippery, but as they approached the wall, a very chilled-looking guard in blue and white livery and a thick black cloak hailed them from the shelter of the portcullis and said, "My lords are made most welcome to Roscommon. What is the nature of your visit?"

"High Prince Cor of Archenland bids welcome to his friends, your master and mistress," Cor answered, a hint of a grin on his blue lips.

The guard bowed deeply. "Your Royal Highness. We have been expecting you most eagerly. We bid you welcome."

He waved them through the gate and into the winding system of cobbled walkways and guard stations until they reached the courtyard. There, liveried grooms and dogsbodies ran to help them dismount, and a dignified-looking man in the same blue and white livery met them at the top of a flight of ancient, vine-covered stairs.

"Your Royal Highness and Your Lordships," he said, bowing so deeply his nose practically touched the floor. "You are most welcome. My lord and my lady have commanded that I bring you directly to your chambers so you may rest and warm up before dinner. May I ask the names of your eminent party?"

Aravis smiled a little at the thought of their muddy, drippy selves being _eminent_, but Cor waved his hand and said, "Oh, let's not bother with that—we're the second half of the group that arrived the other day."

The man looked puzzled.

Cor clarified. "My royal brother the prince Cor arrived here a few days past with a somewhat larger entourage…"

"I do apologize, Your Highness, but Roscommon has not seen visitors in over two months. We were expecting you to arrive with a somewhat larger party."

Aravis and Cor traded glances. "Er, yes," Cor said slowly, "I will. I mean—that is to say, we split the party a ways back and agreed to meet here. I guess…we are the first to arrive. And by 'we' I mean myself, Lady Aravis Tarkheena, Lord Darrin Earl of Boldenhal, Sir Borran of Westmor, and Ram of Rhum."

The man bowed deeply again, then turned and went inside. The five of them followed, dripping steadily on the flagged floor and steaming in the warmth of the manor house. As their fingers and nose started to tingle, though, one thought was foremost in their minds, shared by the frowns and thin mouths they all wore: where were the others?


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

_A/N: I discovered Tumblr the other day. Why do I bother trying to get any writing done anymore? _

_Chapter Thirty-One_

It took the companions several hours to dry off, warm up, and dress for dinner before they could even begin to fathom sitting in polite company. Even so, once Aravis was back in the faded but neat yellow frock she had worn to the tournament, her hair dried and brushed and pinned back in the Archenlandian way, she couldn't help but feel a bit like a little girl again as the steward in the Roscommon livery met them and set off down the long corridor to the great hall. She had never met the Roscommon family before, other than young Erec, and all she knew of them was what she had heard from less-than-reputable sources—her ladies-in-waiting, to be exact. They delighted in whispering about how young Erec's mother was a harlot and there was some very shady business about her death some years before—that the current lord and lady of the estate were somehow involved. All the drama had been before Aravis's time, so she had brushed the gossip off, but now she wondered.

The steward ushered them into the bustling room, banged his staff, and announced their arrival.

"Your Royal Highness!"

Lord and Lady Roscommon rose to meet them as they approached the high table. They were both garbed in fine clothes that echoed the house's livery, but they were elegant and refined, not gaudy. Cor greeted them with a smile. "Well met, Roscommon. I thought we might not make it."

"Aye, the weather turned sour, didn't it," said Lord Roscommon, a tall, broad-shouldered man of dark eyes and swarthy skin. He looked enough like an Archenlander to pass unnoticed, but Aravis wondered if he might have some Calormene blood.

"Did you make it through Farr Valley well enough? We worried about you," added Lady Roscommon—she was a pure Archenlander, Aravis could tell; long, light hair and fair skin made her look younger than she must have been, though her swollen belly indicated she was well along in child-bearing.

"It was tricky going at points," Cor answered, smiling, "but we were all right."

"Very good. I'm quite sure your royal brother will be joining us shortly."

The smile Cor gave her was a bit strained with worry, but he said nothing about his misgivings, for which Aravis was grateful. It was hard enough worrying about Corin and Hana privately, but sharing their concern would only serve to intensify it.

"But I digress," he said suddenly. "Let me introduce the Lady Aravis to you."

Aravis suddenly found herself shuffled forward and bowed to. "It is a pleasure, my lord and lady," she said neutrally, dropping into a neat curtsy.

"So _you're_ the famous Aravis," said Lady Roscommon, smiling not unkindly. "We have heard much of you from Anvard over the years. I have wanted to meet you, you know—I regret that our responsibilities here keep us from coming to Anvard very often."

Aravis was tempted to ask what responsibilities—many lords spent more time in Anvard than in their ancestral castles—but then she caught sight of the high table, where a brood of eight or nine young children squirmed and made faces at each other as they waited for the meal to be served.

Lady Roscommon followed Aravis's gaze and smiled. "Yes—you can see why I am kept so busy. You have met our eldest, Erec, haven't you?"

"I have—but only briefly."

"He talks to no end about you and Their Highnesses—it makes his siblings desperately jealous to hear him speak of knights and ladies and princes and kings."

Aravis had to smile at this.

"Come, my dear, we keep our guests from their dinner," Lord Roscommon said genially, holding his arm out to his wife.

Lady Roscommon smiled. "I hope you forgive our lack of ceremony tonight, my lords and lady—we thought you might be more interested in the food itself."

They obliged their hosts with a good-natured laugh and settled down to their meal. It was a sturdy, unfussy one of thick stews, fresh fish, warm bread, and plenty of watered wine to dull the pain of their aching bodies a little. The wine did little to ease the knot of worry in Aravis's stomach, though; she could hear the faint patter of rain and the rumble of thunder even inside the stone manor, and she couldn't help but think of how miserable Hana must be—if she was still alive, that is.

The thought shocked her to her core. Only then had it occurred to her how dangerous it really was for young women in the unsettled wildernesses of northern Archenland; as if the Finnii weren't bad enough, the political instability in Narnia meant that more and more unsavory characters were traveling to and fro across the border—at any moment, an inexperienced young girl like Hana could fall from her horse and break her neck, wander off and get lost, be kidnapped by slavers, or dragged off by thieves to be raped and murdered. It had happened too many times before.

"_Aravis._"

Darrin, his face close to hers, was looking intently at her, the side of his hand touching hers. She cleared her throat.

"You look pale. Are you feeling all right?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"You're not feeling ill?"

At his mention of the word, Aravis suddenly realized that indeed, her stomach was in such tight knots she was beginning to feel nauseous. She cleared her throat again. "Well…a little…I just…yes, I feel a slight bit ill…"

"You should go to bed. It's been an exhausting few weeks. Come along—I'll help you."

"That's not necessary," she said quickly, staggering a little as she got to her feet. The men at the table rose reflexively with her, and Cor put out a hand as she held onto her chair to steady herself.

"Yes, it is," Darrin replied firmly. "Lord and Lady Roscommon, Lady Aravis regretfully is feeling rather unwell. I shall escort her to her chambers."

"Do you need anything?" Lady Roscommon asked Aravis with a concerned look.

She shook her head. "Sleep is all I need. I thank you for dinner."

"Of course. Feel better."

Cor took her arm. "I'll help you upstairs, Aravis. Darrin, you can finish your meal—"

"That won't be necessary, sire, I was quite finished."

Aravis and Cor glanced at each other; Cor had just helped himself to another bowlful of stew, so it would be impossible to insist that he, too, was finished without making a scene. Though it made her stomach twist a bit tighter, she nodded slightly to him, and he released her arm and sat back down.

Darrin, having won this round, led her from the hall with an expression somewhat akin to smugness. "I am sure you are merely over-tired," he assured her as they went their way to her chamber. "A night of good rest will set you back on your feet."

"I wish Corin and Hana were back safe," she said sadly. "Then I could sleep soundly."

"I understand—I fear for my brother's safety, as well."

The conversation trailed off here, and Aravis was content to let it stay that way. The fact that she had promised him an answer to his proposal once they reached Roscommon hung over her head like a black cloud—she had a feeling that it would lift once she'd made up her mind, but the idea of sitting down and deciding her future was distinctly unpleasant.

They reached her door without another word, and Aravis, feeling somewhat relieved, put her hand on the knob and turned to thank Darrin.

He was ahead of her. Very gently he placed his hand on hers, a caress that effectively kept her from opening the door. "Aravis," he said softly, his grey eyes flickering in the torchlight.

She swallowed.

"Have you thought more about…" The words made him color, and in a moment of comprehension, Aravis thought that if she were fonder of him than she really was, she would find his attempt at courtship utterly endearing. "…about my offer?"

She looked away. "Er…well…a little, yes…"

"Tell me you will accept."

"I…I know I said you would have my answer when we reached Roscommon, Darrin, but…but I wasn't expecting that Cor would get lost, that Corin and the others wouldn't be here…my mind is quite preoccupied."

"Are you saying no?"

He practically whispered the words, and Aravis shook her head, eyes on the floor. "No. Not yet. I need more time."

"I could wait a whole year if it meant you would say yes at the end of it," he declared.

Aravis forced a small smile. "Answer me this, Darrin," she said suddenly. "Do you love me?"

She didn't know where the question came from—it just popped out. Darrin looked taken aback, and she didn't blame him; it was a question Hana might ask, but never Aravis. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh, shaking her head, "that wasn't a fair question. You will have my answer soon—when the others return."

He had looked a bit disconcerted, but the expression quickly disappeared and the hand that was on top of hers stroked her knuckles. "You would bring life back to Boldenhal, Aravis."

"You could do that yourself, you know, by visiting it once in a while."

"Ah, you are a cruel mistress."

Aravis smiled slightly.

His hand squeezed hers. "You have told me often to be less of a gentleman."

"I mean that in a general sense, of course."

"Of course. But I have learned that some things are accomplished quicker when I _am_ less of one."

She suddenly knew where this was going. Now more than ever she fervently wished that she could rewind time and never danced with Darrin, never let him kiss her in the first place. It had been her weakness that encouraged him, and now…

"I was very much hoping you would let me kiss you goodnight. If you're feeling better, that is."

Aravis sighed to herself—she could tell him no and escape into her room, or she would give in just this once, perhaps placating him for a time. She nodded briefly.

He kissed her considerately, his lips light and dry on hers and his hands still. She was just beginning to think that perhaps marrying him wouldn't be so bad after all if he performed his conjugal duties so politely when someone cleared their throat. The sound was deafeningly loud in the quiet corridor, and they jumped.

Aravis wanted to sink into the flagstones and disappear when she saw who it was. His freckled face carefully neutral, Cor was holding her kerchief out to her, keeping his eyes fixed on her right ear. "You left this," he said awkwardly.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking the proffered handkerchief with a mortified flush. "Er…goodnight, Cor. Goodnight, Darrin."

With that, she opened the door to her chamber and slipped inside before either of them could stop her. It was dark and cool, and she felt some of the knots in her stomach loosen.

Her relaxation did not stretch far enough to ensure her a good night's sleep, however. The maid assigned to her was perceptive enough to bring her a late breakfast in bed and dress her in a loose, faded frock, but Aravis could see the stress and exhaustion she felt in her face whenever she looked in the mirror.

When she finally emerged from her chambers that day, she found Darrin and Borran in the sitting room holding a casual conversation with the Roscommons as the children tumbled around on the floor. It was too domestic of a scene; Aravis felt almost suffocated by the amount of familial love in the room. To be polite, she sat for a while with one of the younger boys on her lap as he gummed her plait, but after an hour, she excused herself and wandered around the manor house in an aimless manner.

After a while, she found herself at the library. Every manor house in Archenland had a library, and Cor had been in most of them. Sure enough, when she poked her head in, she caught sight of his red-gold head deep in a pile of books.

"Researching dragons, I see," she said, walking over to the table he'd spread out at and putting her hand on his shoulder.

Cor straightened and leaned forward so her hand slipped off. "Yes. The first chance I've gotten since we were at Dorovan."

"I still have the book Arrania gave me if you want it."

"Yes, that would be helpful."

She nodded, tucking her hands under her arms. "You know, Cor…about last night…"

He waved a dismissive hand and turned a page in the book he was flipping through. "It's your business."

"Well, I feel terrible—it's the second time you've—well—"

"You've made your choice. I have no intentions of disrupting your betrothal—I'm sure you and he will be very happy."

"No, you're not," she said sadly. "I wish I could make you understand why I've made this decision…"

"I wish you could, too." Cor's tone was resentful, and he pushed his chair back and rubbed his face.

"You're a man," Aravis replied miserably. "You can spend your life unmarried and exist just as well as you would if you were wed. Women—my wealth is tied up in my dowry. If I don't marry, I will be destitute before long."

"You think I would let that happen—"

"_You will be king_," she said fervently, pushing his shoulder back until he looked up at her. "Cor, you would never get away with it. The king of Archenland wasting the kingdom's gold on a woman who is not his wife? No self-respecting wife would stand for that, and your privy council would stage a walk-out."

He tried to argue, but she shook her head. "Cor, marrying Darrin will give me access to my wealth and a respected Archenlandian family name. I'll give him a son and then I will be free to run my own life."

"A mere shadow of it—"

"Yes, but at least I'll have one. Boldenhal is not far from Anvard. Darrin is important. I will have influence. And Cor, think about it—Darrin is kind, courteous, well off, important, and _handsome_. Do you remember when you met Ahoshta Tarkaan? _Do you_?"

Cor stammered out a response.

"Yes—horrific looking, wasn't he? Can you imagine me marrying someone like that? Giving children to someone like that?"

"Aravis, _stop_ it—" He stood up abruptly, shaking his head and even covering his ears at one point. "I don't want to talk about this, all right?"

Aravis's temper flared. "If I don't, Cor, you'll get all silent and angry and _insist_ nothing's wrong and I know you're upset—"

"_Damn right I'm upset_!"

His voice echoed off the rafters. For a moment, he looked as surprised at his burst of anger as Aravis felt, but then the mask of outrage descended on his face once more. "Aravis, he's _twice your age_. You gave me no warning, no indication at all that I might—that you would abandon me—all of us—two months into the journey—"

"I told you I would wait until after you married—"

"All your talk of reputation! Do you think you could honorably marry him after a betrothal in which you spent hours—days—alone and unchaperoned? No! You know as well as I do that if you are to marry him, you must do it _soon_."

"I didn't ask to be a woman, you know," she choked out rather ridiculously. "I would just as happily have been born a man—it would have saved me a lot of grief over the course of my life."

"Mine, too," Cor said bitterly.

His comment cut deeper than Aravis expected. Those two little words expressed a deep dissatisfaction with a decade of friendship—if she had been born a man, they never would have met. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I'm sorry if I have been that much of a burden," she bit out.

Cor spun on his heel and was formulating a retort when they were interrupted by Ram, who came to the door of the library flushed and out of breath. "They're back," he said without preamble.

All thought of Darrin fled Aravis's mind completely, and she and Cor hurried from the room after Ram, who was already nearly halfway down the corridor. As her slippered feet pattered along the flagstones, her exhausted brain kept chanting _Please don't be hurt, please don't be hurt_ over and over again.

The entrance hall was full of life. At the head of the bedraggled band of rain- and mud-soaked travelers was a familiar reddish head; Corin stood out amongst the older men like a lily among roses. Close by his side, her blonde curls plastered to her cheeks, was Hana, pale and blue-lipped but otherwise in one piece.

"Brother!"

Cor darted ahead and caught Corin in a firm embrace, the two of them laughing a bit at the absurdity of the situation. "I had hoped you were dead," Cor said affectionately, looking down at his now-wet tunic.

Corin punched his arm and said, "Not that easily, Cor! Takes more than a bit of rain to wash this old boy out."

"Really, though, what took you so long?"

"Our horses kept losing shoes," Corin said sheepishly. "It really was ridiculous—it seemed like one every hour. And then we finally ran out of extra shoes, so I had to send some men back to look for the flipped ones. That took _ages_. And the heat—the heat! I really feared for our health, let me tell you."

"And then the rain?"

"And then the rain. Miserable. When'd you get here?"

"Just yesterday," Cor answered with a small grin.

"Oh, Sir High-And-Mighty-You're-_Late_ is tardy himself! What's the excuse?"

"Finnii."

Corin's grin slipped away instantly. "By the Lion. Is everyone—"

"Everyone's fine," Cor reassured him immediately.

Corin relaxed and smiled again. "Good. We're all well, too. Bit chilled—"

"Of course—"

"—But well."

The fraternal greeting now completed, Corin shifted his gaze to Aravis. "Aravis," he said, inclining his head.

"Hullo, Corin," she said bashfully. "I'm glad you're back safe. We really worried about you. I had the most horrific dreams about you—and Hana, you too."

Hana, who had been standing respectfully aside, gave a hollow smile. "Thank you, Lady Aravis."

"Well, come now," Cor said quickly. "You must be exhausted and wet to the skin. Where's that steward—ah, here he is. Go get rested. When you're dry and warm again, we'll talk."

He and Corin and Hana moved off, laughing and chatting amongst themselves as they left Aravis behind feeling snubbed. The oblique rejection stung like a knife prick; she chewed hard on her lip to force back the tears as she lifted her chin and walked back to her chamber with all the dignity she could muster. It would have been one thing if just Corin and Hana were dismissive of her—that she could bear. But all three of them? The only people in the world who called her 'friend'? That was an anguish she would never care to experience again.


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

_Chapter Thirty-Two_

When Aravis returned to her chamber, the fire was out and the room was dark and cold. It really was fitting, she thought miserably as she kicked the door closed and took up the poker. The ashes had no life in them at all, and she had to get down on her knees, drop a few more logs in, and fumble for kindling and a flint. Cold, wet air wailed around the top of the chimney. The flint she found was dull, and in the dark it took her several minutes to catch a spark. When she did, the stones slipped and gouged her finger, drawing blood even as the spark nestled in the center of the kindling and began to smoke.

Dark red gore began to dribble from the deep cut and she instinctively stuck the offending digit in her mouth, only to have her mouth filled almost immediately by the sickly-sweet taste of her own blood. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Suddenly, she realized that the logs had gone up in flames. The light was pleasant, but there seemed to be a bit more smoke and heat than there usually was. She looked around in confusion; then she saw that the hem of her frock, so much longer than she was used to, was resting amidst the flames, its yellow fabric turning to ash. Flames were creeping up the skirt.

Aravis had never been one to scream, but this time she did, lunging forward and knocking a pitcher of water from the bureau. It shattered on the floor, doing nothing to staunch the growing flames. Desperate, she seized the rug next to her bed and started beating the flames with it; the frayed fabric merely smoked and then caught on fire itself.

All of a sudden, there was a loud hiss and a billow of smoke and steam. Aravis was soaked to the skin, shaking from head to foot, but the fire was extinguished; nothing remained of it but a destroyed frock. Hana stood in front of Aravis, an empty pitcher dangling from her hand. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Aravis started to shake.

Hana set the pitcher down went over to her. "Did you get burned?" she asked again, helping Aravis stand up. Aravis shrugged helplessly through a haze of tears and Hana tsked and bent down, gingerly pulling aside the charred remnants of Aravis's skirt to survey the damage. "This frock and your stockings and slippers are spoiled, but you don't look hurt."

The best response Aravis could manage was a watery sniffle.

"Let's get you in a fresh shift and a new frock, yes?" Hana went on. "What about that green one? It looks so nice against your skin."

Aravis didn't argue. Hana cleaned up the shards of pottery and bits of burned cloth while she undressed, then pulled the clean clothes out the wardrobe and helped Aravis struggle into them. "There, now," she said gently, picking up the remnants of Aravis's blackened clothing. "I'll take care of these."

"Thank you," Aravis choked out.

"You just rest now." Hana bundled the cloth up and tucked it under her arm, then turned and headed towards the door.

Aravis sat on the side of her bed, staring at her shaking hands. "Are you coming back?" she asked impulsively.

Hana did not turn around. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I care only about your rank and your title," Hana replied tonelessly. "If you let me spend too much time with you, I might slip a knife between your ribs."

Hana's words—_my words_—came as a slap in the face. For a moment, Aravis couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I didn't mean that…"

"Yes, you did." Hana turned and fixed her with a teary but fierce gaze, holding the bundle of wet and smoky clothes in front of her like a shield. "You may not think you did, but Aravis—you—you are incapable of trust..."

"I am _not_—"

"You _are_. When someone gets too close, you—you lash out—you force them away no matter what it takes. I've seen you do it to Cor, too. If you can't trust him…"

Aravis was clenching her hands so tightly her nails were biting into her skin.

Hana sighed. "It's impossible to be friends with someone who won't let one love them. You can't treat people like that, Aravis, you just can't!"

"No one's ever complained before," Aravis burst out stubbornly, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

"You mean Cor and Corin? Because they love you enough to weather your storms. But someday they'll realize—someday they'll have had enough—"

Aravis willed the tears back, feeling close to vomiting, smashing something, or just floating away—or all three.

"You should get some rest." Hana turned away again and left the room. The silence that she left was deafening, and Aravis curled up on the coverlet, crossing her arms over her stomach. For a moment, she thought she might just slip into sleep, but then the look on Hana's face when she said _You are incapable of trust_ consumed her mind, sending pain like knives arcing right through her. Aravis hid her face in her pillow as the tears came with sobs that wracked her from head to toe. She had cried before, but never like this—every wrench of emotion felt like it was tearing her in half, starting in the empty hollow that had been her heart.

It could have been minutes or hours before suddenly, a gentle touch on her shoulder caught her in between sobs. She looked up, eyes blurred by tears, and raised a shaking hand to her face.

"You'll give yourself a blotchy complexion if you keep that up," came Hana's voice.

Aravis scrubbed the tears from her eyes. "I thought you said you were leaving," she said, her words interrupted by damp hiccoughs.

"I didn't say _forever_," Hana retorted mulishly.

Aravis sniffled as more tears spilled down her cheeks, and Hana rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "I'm sorry…so sorry, you know."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Another wave of hot tears seized Aravis by the gut, and she buried her face in the crook of her arm. "No—really—so very—sorry—you're not—as bad as—Gyneth—"

"Easy, now."

"And I—am so glad—Cor agreed to—take you on—"

"Shh…shh."

"But you're—right—you're _so right_—"

"About what?"

"_Everything_. I'm—so horrible…all the—_hic!—_time…"

"Oh, come now, I said no such thing."

"But I _am_. I'm so—unhappy and—bitter and—self-centered—and spiteful—"

"Not all the time."

Aravis let out a _ha!_ of humorless laughter. "Even when I'm polite—and kind—and gentle—I am secretly suspicious—and cynical—_about everything_—even _Cor_—he couldn't be two-faced if—his life depended on it—"

Hana was stroking her hair like a mother soothes a colicky baby. "I don't really blame you for it, Aravis. Of course you find it hard to trust people when they claim to care for you. The two people who should have shown you the most love and the best kind never showed you any at all, so why should you expect it from others?"

"Everyone—who called themselves my friends—in Calormen—stopped speaking to me—once I moved to Anvard."

"They weren't really your friends, then."

"And at first—no one wanted to be my friend here—because I'm a _savage_—and then—once Lune made it clear I was staying—oh, yes, _then_—people flocked to my chambers—wanting this knighthood for—their son and—that audience with the king—"

"Have you ever had friends, Aravis? _Real, true _friends?"

Aravis thought suddenly of Lasaraleen, but then she recalled all the things she never told the older woman about herself and remembered with a sinking heart, as she had done so many times before, that Lasaraleen had been friends with an Aravis that didn't exist. She sadly shook her head.

Hana tsked and flipped the pillow to the dry side. "No wonder you got so defensive when I told you the princes love you."

"How—can they?" Aravis wept, wrapping her arms around the pillow.

"Oh, don't say that."

"It's true—"

"Because they know what the _real_ Aravis is like. I told you."

She shook her head miserably, wishing that the pillow would swallow her up entirely.

Hana sighed and the mattress shifted as she got up from the bed. Aravis heard her cross the room, and then the gentle squeal of the door, and she gave herself up to the fact that Hana—calm, persevering Hana—had lost patience with her at last. _There really is no hope for me,_ she thought wretchedly, clinging to her pillow like it was an anchor in a stormy sea. Cor's biting words came back to haunt her—_he wishes we'd never met_—and she suddenly imagined herself in her brother's place, Tarkaan of Calavar and husband to a dozen young women who didn't dare cross him, with all the wealth and power that was afforded the lord of the second-greatest province in Calormen. No Hana, no Corin, and Cor only as a vague afterthought, the ruler of that distant barbarian land and no friend of his.

The imagined scenario should have given her comfort, but it only served to make her more miserable.

"Aravis! What's gotten into you?"

Suddenly Corin was there, filling the small room with his bulk and equally sizeable personality. He sat down on the bed by Aravis's balled-up form and attempted to roll her over so he could see her face.

"Corin, be kind, she's very upset."

"I can see that. What's happened?"

Aravis turned away from him, but he caught her arms and started dragging her up into a sitting position. "Ah-ah, don't get defensive," he scolded. "Hana's worried about you. She tells me you're under the impression Cor and I don't love you to absolute _bits_."

"I've been _beastly_ lately—" she burst out, trying to twist free.

Corin locked her in a grip she was sure she'd seen him use in boxing; at any rate, she could no longer use her arms, as he'd pinned them to her body. "Well, that much is true," he said, ignoring her useless struggles to free herself. "But we love you anyway. That's what love is all about, innit? Being fond of someone when they do everything they can to not deserve it? Oh, no, don't start blubbering aga—oh, dear. There, there."

He released the hold on her arms and patted her back instead; she cried weakly into his shoulder. "Sometimes we treat you a bit rough, but that's what brothers do, isn't it? Lion's mane, I treat Cor like a punching bag but that doesn't mean I don't _like_ him."

"That's a relief."

Cor came over to the bed and carefully sat down on Aravis's other side. Suddenly, she realized how frightful she must look after crying so long, but he put his arms around her and said nothing.

"We have to give—Corin a—chance to change—his shirt now," she said with a weak attempt at humor, turning over to put her head on Cor's shoulder instead. He chuckled, and she heard Corin say, "Eugh, it's all wet!" Hana laughed, too, and as she listened to her friends giggling, Aravis began to shake from somewhere very deep within. It felt almost like the breaking of a high fever.

Cor rubbed her arm with a big hand and said, "Now what is this Hana tells me about—"

"It's nothing. Really."

"Really?"

Corin scoffed. "Oh, _Aravis_. Cor, Aravis seems to think we don't love her."

"Well, to be quite fair," Hana broke in admonishingly, "Aravis has really been struggling lately with her ability to trust others. Wouldn't you say, poor dear?"

Aravis didn't answer. It was much easier to sit there with her face in Cor's chest.

"It's hard to tell if people just want something, isn't it?" he said gently, stroking her tousled hair. "You haven't got a lot of practice in dealing with people who love you for who you are, not what you are."

She nodded wordlessly.

"Go on," Hana urged. "She needs to hear you say it."

"Say what?"

"That you love her! Hana and I have done it. Now it's your turn."

Clearing his throat, Cor put his other arm around her and squeezed her. "I love you, Aravis," he said close to her ear, the stiff hairs of his growing beard scratching her forehead. "And don't you ever forget it."

She sniffled and sighed against his throat.

Hana started clapping. "There. Do you believe us now?"

Aravis nodded into Cor's tunic. Her eyes burned again, and she suddenly wanted to curl up and have another go at the crying jag, but when Cor felt her shudder he put his head down by her ear again and said, "Do you think this whole Darrin thing has anything to do with it?"

Fighting back a fresh wave of tears, she shrugged, then nodded.

"What's that?" Corin said, clambering over the mattress and putting his face by theirs. Cor pushed him away. "I heard something about Darrin. What's wrong with Darrin?"

"Corin, hush—"

"No, Hana, I want to know!"

"Can I tell them?" Cor asked Aravis, kindly not expecting her to look at him.

She nodded.

He put his arms about her protectively and said to Corin and Hana, "Darrin's been paying Aravis some unwanted attention. Yesterday he asked her to marry him, and she said she'd think about it."

"He's a nice-looking man," Hana said obligingly.

Corin made a disgusted noise.

"What? He is."

"He's also _ages_ older than you—"

"Well, this isn't about me. Aravis, have you decided if you're going to marry him?"

Aravis shrugged helplessly, and Cor squeezed her. "He's—kind and—good-looking," she ventured.

"We know the most important question," Hana said replied. "Aravis, do you _want_ to marry Darrin? And I mean _really_ want—from the bottom of your heart?"

Aravis considered the question for a moment, then quietly started weeping again as she vehemently shook her head _no_.

"Then don't!" Corin cried, pounding the mattress with a fist. "You're not supposed to get married."

This made everyone turn and look at him, even Aravis through her tears.

"What?" Cor said in confusion.

Corin colored. "Well—I mean, it's _Aravis_—Aravis doesn't—she's—I mean, she's supposed to be with us. That's just…the way it is. The way it's always been."

Touched, Aravis swiped some tears from her cheeks and reached out to squeeze Corin's hand. He looked embarrassed.

Hana smiled sadly. "Women can't do that, Corin. Not in this age."

"It's _stupid_," Corin said gloomily.

"We've all got to get married eventually," Cor sighed. "Aravis just decided to get it out of the way before we did."

"I'm not marrying Darrin."

The pronouncement startled her almost as much as it startled everyone else. Cor looked down at her with surprise.

"I'm not," she repeated firmly. "I don't want to get married—not yet. And not to Darrin. I'm much too busy taking care of you people."

"That's the spirit," Corin crowed, and Hana cheered a little.

"This calls for a drink," Cor said magnanimously. He untangled himself from Aravis's arms and slid off the bed, hurrying to the door to go for a servant.

Aravis turned to face Corin and Hana, scrubbing the last of the tears from her face. "Thank you," she said bashfully.

Hana reached out and took her hand. "It's what friends do, Aravis. Someday you won't be surprised anymore."

Aravis smiled.

"Where do you keep your handkerchiefs?" Corin asked, getting up and wandering around the room. "Let's get you cleaned up a bit."

She pointed toward the chest at the foot of the bed, and Corin produced a few choice samples which she then used to dry her face and blow her nose. Hana took what water was left in the bottom of the jug she'd brought to douse the flames with to dampen one, and Aravis applied it to her puffy eyes and was combing out her pillow-mussed hair when Cor came back into the room, bearing a tray of goblets. "Fresh wine," he announced gleefully, and passed one to each of them before hopping back onto the mattress and putting his arm around Aravis again.

"I'm starved," Corin said after taking a big mouthful of wine. "What time is it?"

"Just about supper time," Cor answered. "I told the manservant that Aravis was under the weather, and that we'd all take our meals in her chamber."

"Brilliant," Corin said, and that settled it.

Hana gasped a little and put her hand on his arm. "I've just had the best idea—let's teach them noddy!"

Corin laughed out loud. "Hana, you're brilliant—have you got the cards, or have I?"

"I can't remember. Let's go look. We'll be right back," she said to Cor and Aravis, eyes alight with excitement. "Dar taught us this _wickedly_ exciting card game, and you've got to learn—"

Aravis smiled and nodded, and Corin helped Hana off the bed and they hurried to the door. As they slammed it shut behind them, Cor downed the rest of his wine and set the goblet on the bedside table, then settled back against Aravis's pillows with his arms behind his head.

"Marry her," Aravis told him.

"What? Oh, Aravis, give it a rest!"

"But you saw how perfectly she fits in with us—she'd make a fantastic wife, you know—"

Cor rolled his eyes. "Let's give marriage talk a wide berth for a while—just a few weeks, even. I'm quite tired of it by now."

"So am I," Aravis admitted.

"D'you know what else I'm tired of?" Cor asked, turning his head to look at her.

"What?"

"Fighting and making up with you. Well, I like the making up bit, but the fighting …"

Aravis sighed and wrapped her arms around her legs. "I know. We've been terrible, haven't we?"

He nodded. "We used to be able to argue and scrap and not actually get so angry with each other. What happened?"

She shrugged her shoulders wearily. "I don't know. But I hate it."

"As do I. I'm really, really sorry, Aravis, for whatever beastly things I've said to you lately—"

"Not as sorry as I am for what I've said to you—"

Cor reached forward and took her elbow in his hand. "No, Aravis, _really_. When I saw—when I thought you were dead, I…all I could think about was that you'd died thinking I couldn't stand you."

She felt dangerously close to tears again, but she dashed her hand across her eyes. "I thought the same about you, you know."

Cor sighed. "We've really botched this, haven't we?"

"Agreed."

"What is _wrong_ with us?"

"Well, we never really got a chance to get used to each other, did we?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, I was gone in Calormen for so long…when I came back, Lune and Corin were the same, but you…it was like…when you send your new hunting pup off to be trained and it comes back lean and quick and you know it's the same dog but it's still not the drooling puppy you saw last. Takes some time to accustom yourself to the animal's new commands and habits."

Cor grinned. "Did I come back lean and quick?"

Aravis gave a very unladylike snort. "If you want to think so."

"I don't trip over things nearly as often."

"No, I guess that's true."

"And I haven't lit anything on fire lately."

"Definitely an improvement."

"And I've got a beard now."

"A very scratchy one."

"There's just no pleasing you, is there?"

She had to smile, and Cor wrestled her down into a firm embrace. "I can't breathe," she groaned, her face pressed into his clavicle.

"Yes, well, your hair is getting in my mouth. This was easier when we were younger."

Still, Aravis was comfortable, and she smiled to herself. She thought briefly of Darrin, but before she could really start to worry again, the door banged open and Corin and Hana came back in, flushed and grinning and bearing a tray of food and a deck of cards.

"Budge over," Corin said, and Hana placed the food square in the middle of the mattress.

"Food first, then cards," she decreed. "Aravis, what would you like?"

And so, eagerly downing slices of juicy roast boar and fresh bread, Aravis felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach that defied the raging storm outside. The fire was hot and bright, the food was bracing, and her friends were laughing and telling jokes. She grinned into her wine.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

_A/N: Hi, everyone, thanks for being so patient! I'm now moved in at university, so things will hopefully settle down in terms of moving cross-country multiple times a month. :P In other news, I finally have a diagnosis for my stomach problems! I have mild Crohn's disease, an autoimmune disease that is manageable but incurable. Continued prayers are urgently needed, as (I'm not going to lie) I'm quite scared. Thanks, and enjoy the chapter! ~Sushi_

_Chapter Thirty-Three_

Darrin took Aravis's decision not to marry him rather well. Aravis broke it to him gently over a few goblets of mulled wine, and he was polite and respectful about the whole thing, which Aravis heaved a sigh of relief about afterwards. Nevertheless, interaction with him from then on had a staid, awkward tone to it which it did not have before; as the twins and Hana were the only ones who knew what had gone on, though, Aravis just decided to it was best to go on with her life as though nothing was wrong.

And so the companions spent the three weeks of the rainy season recuperating, enjoying each other's company, and plotting out the next leg of their journey. In the midst of all the paperwork and letters that the Roscommons had received in anticipation of their visit was a letter from a Viscount Sidrat of the far south inviting them to winter at his estate, Castle Zohra.

"Why, that's a Calormene name," Aravis said immediately, sitting forward.

"The castle is somewhat new," Dar explained. "The viscount built it in honor of his new bride, Zohra Tarkheena of Sardarabad, several decades ago."

"An Archenlandian nobleman marrying a tarkheena," Hana mused aloud. "How uncommon!"

"Ah," said Darrin quickly, "but it is really not, my dear. Especially in the south. It is quite common to see intermingling between our peoples there."

"I think we should accept," Aravis declared, smiling. "It sounds wonderful to me."

Cor nodded. "I'll write to him right away."

And so, with that destination in mind, Borran laid out a clear set of plans for the following months: Dar and most of his men would take their leave the rains stopped—Dar insisted he had to interview more lords farther northeast, but Aravis wasn't so sure—but Ram would continue with the main body on Dar's express request. "I would feel much more at east knowing the Ginger Shadow was with you," Dar announced, much to the big man's amused bashfulness. Cor agreed. After Dar's departure, then, the rest of the body (the same core group plus Ram and Hana) would travel down the eastern coast, spending time in small farming and fishing communities as well as the several sprawling trade guild cities on the sea. After that, they would swing west and head toward Castle Zohra, steering well clear of the Great Desert (_that_ Cor insisted upon).

The rain gradually petered off, allowing the companions to make brief excursions out in the mud to warm up their horses and get accustomed to the saddle after a fortnight and a half of sleeping on down mattresses. Soon, July wore into August, and the sun began to dry up the flooded fields and clear muddy cart paths.

At last the day came that it was time to part ways. With great fanfare, they set out into the cool, damp morning, waving goodbye to their friends as their horses pranced with impatience. "I'll see you in the spring!" Cor called to young Erec, who bravely held back tears as he clung to his mother's skirt.

_Spring,_ Aravis thought. _What a concept. The wedding—the coronation—everything._

The thought didn't seem to disconcert anybody else, though, and so they turned their faces to the south.

"Our first stop is Hiddlestown," Cor mused, shading his eyes against the rising sun. "Father's sent some packages that way, he wrote to me."

"When will we get there?" asked Aravis, who was riding alongside him.

"Borran says within the week, I think. I _hope_." He squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle, and Raider pranced. "I'm not used to this yet."

Aravis laughed at the look on his face and kicked Inga into a fluid canter.

The coolness brought on by the rainy season didn't last long. It was August, after all, and soon Aravis was the only one of them who didn't wilt in the blistering heat. The hot sun burned off any moisture in the air, making the weather feel more like Calormen to her than Archenland. The others, though, sweated profusely and insisted on stopping for shade and cool water multiple times a day—so it took them nine whole days to reach the outskirts of Hiddlestown.

By the time the town walls were in sight, the sun was sinking low on the western horizon, and they had to hurry to make it in before the gates were closed.

"Cutting it close, there, eh, mates?" said one of the guards who was supervising the locking of the doors. "Wouldn't want to be caught unawares out there after dark."

This caught everyone's attention, and Darrin reined up his horse. "What do you mean, good sir?"

The guard looked sheepish at the attention. "Well, alls I was referrin' to, sirs, is the rumors, y'know. The rumors?" he added hopefully, catching their blank looks.

"What rumors are these?" Ram asked.

"Well, what with all t'livestock an' all…talk of dragons and boogeymen and whatsit."

"What about the livestock?" Cor said sharply, shooting Aravis a keen glance.

The guard gave a nervous laugh, trying to diffuse the tension of the situation. "The southrons are complainin' about their animals—says they's being all torn up in the night, like."

"Torn up?" Borran said harshly. "Like how?"

The guard, turning a bit pale, rubbed his ribcage. "Like…split right open, I heard say, right 'long here." He traced his breastbone. "All the innards sucked dry and t'bones cracked in half."

"Sounds like vicious wolves," Darrin said.

"If wolves roast them animals first," replied the guard matter-of-factly.

Aravis felt the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, but she shook it off. "Excuse me," she broke in, "we're meant to see the mayor. Have you an idea where he might be found?"

"Oh, the Honorable Cumberbit!" the guard answered, brightening. "Aye—he lives right off t'street, there—t'big yellow house. Can't miss it."

"Thank you," Aravis said truthfully. She spurred Inga into motion and led the way down the main street, the only cobbled road in the entire town. It was quiet, with few people on the road, and no one gave the muddy, sweaty travelers a second glance. Indeed, it was probably hard to notice them—the massive mustard-yellow thatch-roof set just a few feet back from the road was the main attraction.

They stared as they approached. It was not an _ugly_ house, per se, but it was indeed very yellow, and out of the big wooden door was stepping a very short, very fat, and very dark-haired man in a bright blue tunic.

"Welcome to Hiddleston," he bellowed, so loudly his thick eastern brogue reached their ears before they had even pulled up in front of the house. "You are _most_ welcome!"

"You must be the Honorable Cumberbit," Cor said generously. He dropped from his saddle and strode to meet the man, who was just about half his height. "Well met."

"And you must be the high prince," said the Honorable Cumberbit, twinkling his eyes. "I was at your coronation, you know, when you and your royal brother were just barely old enough to stay awake for more than a few minutes—ha! Hahahaha!"

His laughter was genuine and contagious, and Cor had to grin. "I cannot say I remember you, good sir, but it is a pleasure to make your _re_acquaintance."

The Honorable Cumberbit laughed again and said, "Would you deign to meet my family, Your Royal Highness?"

"I should like nothing more."

The Honorable Cumberbit motioned vigorously to the house behind him; within a moment, the door burst open again and a short, fat, ruddy-cheeked young woman, who couldn't be any younger than Aravis, marched down the path, tugging another tall and thin woman by the hand. "This is my daughter," said the Honorable Cumberbit proudly. "Her name is Janifreda. And this is my wife, Maeva."

"Oh, Papa," said Janifreda, pulling up beside him, "_don't _be so silly! Your Highness, no one calls me Janifreda."

"What should I call you then?" Cor asked, smiling down at this bundle of fat and energy with a rollicking eastern burr in her voice as he greeted her and her thin-mouthed, rather scowly-faced mother. They looked almost nothing alike—Janifreda was as fresh-faced and black-haired as her mother was tight-lipped and washed-out.

"Janey," she answered stoutly. "You can call me Janey, and my father H.C."

Aravis admired her straightforwardness. "You're a rather informal lot," she said, dismounting and striding to Cor's side.

"We don't see much use in putting on airs," H.C. said, looking curiously at her.

"Not when all of Hiddlestown knows he made his fortune mucking out stalls!" Janey crowed.

Maeva closed her eyes and looked mortified.

Janey ignored her, looking instead at Aravis with piercing hazel eyes. "You're Calormene," she said in a tone that was not unkind, merely observant.

"I am," said Aravis.

"Oooh, and you've got the _accent_, too, oh how keen—"

Aravis had heard an Archenlander call Calormene culture 'keen' before, and she smiled a little. "Yes, I grew up a tarkheena."

"How marvelous! And yet you look just like an Archenlander in every other aspect—" Janey broke off and inspected Aravis's person with a calculating eye. "Oh, it's true, though, Calormene women have the _loveliest_ hair—look at mine, by the Old Ones! It's black—just black. And yours is brown and red and gold—is it true, though, that Calormene women hide it under veils all the time?"

"Yes," Aravis admitted, "and it's dreadful. But we learn lovely ways to dress it before we put the veils on. The veils are only worn in the presence of men we're not related to, after all."

"It sounds tedious," Janey said frankly, putting her head to one side. "But I have always wanted to see how the Calormene women wore their hair under those scarves."

"I'll show you!" The words popped out of Aravis's mouth before she could stop them.

Janey's face lit up. "Oooh, you would do that? Brilliant!"

"I would like to see them too," came Hana's meek voice, "if it isn't too much of a bother…"

"The more the merrier," Janey declared, reaching forward and seizing Hana's hand. "And besides—I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Janey. How do you do?"

She executed an ironic curtsy, and Aravis laughed a bit, mimicking her. "I'm Aravis."

"And I'm Hana," Hana said meekly. Aravis wondered why for a moment, then realized that Hana was still subordinate as a farmer's daughter to this woman, a mayor's daughter. Some of the greatest houses in Archenlandian history had begun when an ancestor was made a mayor.

Still, Janey had no delusions of grandeur. "Wonderful to meet you, Hana," she said deferentially, curtsying to her, too.

Hana blushed with pleasure.

Suddenly, H.C. clapped his hands and rubbed his belly. "Come, friends," he said broadly, "our supper is getting cold!"

So, chatting and beating the dried mud from their cloaks, everyone followed the mayor and his family inside the big yellow house. The wood walls were equally vibrant, painted with murals depicting scenes of harvest, country dances, and market day. It really was charming, Aravis had to admit, especially the pastoral tableau that extended into the great hall—the sweeping green hills of eastern Archenland were boasting thick herds of sheep, a few fat cows, and a score of fine, sleek horses, all grazing contentedly beneath a gentle morning sun.

"Janifreda did this," said H.C., beaming proudly as he noticed Aravis's admiration of the painting.

Janey blushed. "Oh, they don't care about that, Papa," she said dismissively, ushering the four youngest companions towards the table.

"Well, I care," Cor said stoutly. "These murals are lovely."

"She's been painting for decades, sire," H.C. broke in, keen to show off his daughter.

"Really, Papa! Only _two_—sire, I'm only three-and-twenty—"

Cor laughed. "They're brilliant. You would like the castle at Anvard, Janey, we have a collection of some of the finest artwork available. Raniar and Mactevis and Westeron and dozens more—"

"I _adore_ Mactevis," Janey burst out, her dark eyes lighting up. "I have a print of his _Illumination of the Wall_ in my bedchamber—"

"We have the original—"

"You _lie_, surely—"

"I don't—"

"Is it as beautiful as it looks reproduced—"

"Even better—"

"All right, all right," Corin broke in, grinning. "I'm starved!"

H.C. clapped his hands as they took their seats, and a whole host of vividly-clad servants came in bearing trays of steaming food, which the travelers happily partook of. Aravis soon found herself wishing that they'd spent the rainy season there rather than with the Roscommons—the mayor's family (there was also a herd of small young girls) was warm and hearty, with the sole exception of Maeva, who sat primly in her chair with her lips pursed.

After the meal, Janey asked if Aravis and Hana would come up to her room to show her how ladies did their hair. They agreed eagerly, and soon they found themselves waiting in a dark, narrow stairwell as Janey bustled around in her chamber, having said that she needed to tidy up before she let a tarkheena see it.

"I really like her," Hana said keenly, gripping Aravis's hand with both of hers, her cheeks red from the good wine the mayor had poured for them. "She's so _funny_!"

"Agreed, absolutely."

Hana chewed on one of her fingernails. "Would it be terribly strange if I said Cor should think about her for his queen? I mean," she went on hastily as Aravis turned to look at her, "did you see how well they were getting on at dinner? Like they'd known each other for _years_—"

"Yes," Aravis said quickly. "But he's only known her for a few hours. Besides, you don't want any competition."

"But I like Janey. She's clever and witty, and Cor thinks so too, did you see his face—"

"All right, all right, I'll ask him," Aravis broke in, keen to change the subject. Hana beamed.

Finally, Janey beckoned them into the room and, beaming, seated herself right away on a rickety stool that was in front of a low vanity, streaked mirror and all. "Dress my hair like a tarkheena," she breathed, face alight in the glow of the candles.

Aravis, who had always had a maidservant to do her hair for her, had to think for a while as she fussed with Janey's hairbrush, Hana looking on with rapt attention. Finally, the vague memory of a simple braided number a maid had done on her once came back to her, and she began to brush Janey's long, black hair, saying, "It won't look quite the same without the jewels and desert lilies, I'm afraid."

"How exotic," Hana breathed, and Aravis blushed.

"It would look most convincing with a veil over it, but it's quite tedious, as you said—"

"I've got one, I've got one," Janey blustered, pointing to a wardrobe in the corner. "Papa got it as a gift from a Galmanian trader a few years ago…"

Hana rushed to the wardrobe and pulled it open. There was a whole host of brilliantly-colored frocks inside, and she sorted around in it for a few moments before withdrawing, with a gasp, a bolt of wine-colored, nearly sheer fabric.

"That's it," Janey said with excitement as Aravis began to work the intricate braids into her hair.

Hana brought it over to Aravis almost reverently, laying it on the bed with exaggerated gentleness.

"It's very lovely," said Aravis, who had worn veils of spun gold.

Janey beamed and turned back to the mirror. "You are so kind, Lady Aravis…we are so honored to have you visit our small little town."

"I think it's quite nice, actually," Hana piped up, and Janey colored prettily.

And so they went on chattering in a distinctly female manner. As she plaited and pinned, Aravis felt as though she was standing with one foot on dry land and the other in cool water; she had been somewhat disdainful to her handmaids when they tittered about in Anvard, but there had always been a small part of her—she had never been an exceptionally pretty woman or keen on making herself so—that felt somewhat left out. Now, though, this strange little globe of femininity was revolving around her, Hana's and Janey's keen face turned up to her in anticipation of further female wisdom. She had a sudden urge to warn them against rakes and rogues.

Janey's gasp of delight broke her from her reverie, and Aravis realized she'd just about completed the plaiting. It was a far cry from the real thing (Janey's hair was too fine to hold some of the pins), but it would fool an Archenlander, and Aravis shook out the wine-colored gauze, settling it over Janey's head. Hana's eyes grew wide as Aravis skillfully draped and tucked the veil so it fell alluringly about Janey's shoulders while still obscuring her mouth and nose.

"And if we were in Calormen, you'd kohl your eyes," Aravis commented, stepping back.

Janey didn't have to be told twice—she opened a small box on the vanity and drew a dark line over both her eyes with a small stick of kohl. The effect was instantaneous; for a moment, even Aravis saw a plump tarkheena turning from the mirror. Hana just about fainted, she was so excited, and Janey paraded about the room in a crude impression of a pampered harem girl.

"Ooooh, you must miss getting to dress like this all the time," Hana cooed, running her fingers over the veil's embroidered hem.

"Hardly," Aravis laughed. "Most of the time I'm happy to put a nice frock on and go about my day."

"Do court ladies kohl their eyes, too?" Janey asked eagerly.

Aravis nodded. "Not so much as Calormene women do, though. Court ladies rouge their cheeks and paint their lips."

"You must have _bottles_ of the stuff," she sighed.

"Oh, not at all—I've only worn it once and even then it made my tongue sore."

Janey pulled the veil down from her mouth. "You never paint your face?"

Aravis shook her head.

Suddenly, she found herself being shoved into the vanity chair. Hana began to brush out her dusty plait while Janey gently set the veil aside and started rubbing Aravis's face with a damp cloth. "Even we country bumpkins know how to do that," Janey giggled, showing her the cloth that was now covered in dirt.

"I really don't think—" Aravis started to protest, but Hana shushed her.

"I've never seen you paint your face," she said scoldingly. "Even when we meet important people!"

Aravis thought to remind Hana that Dar and the Roscommons were hardly important people, but she wisely held her tongue and suffered the ministrations.

"This is how country ladies do up for parties," Janey said with a smile, spreading a bit of cool paste on Aravis's cheeks. "It's nothing so lovely as what you see in Anvard, I'm sure, but…"

"I think it might be lovelier," Hana broke in. "My father always said there was nothing nicer about a woman's face than a sparkle in her eye and the flush of good health."

She put a final pin in Aravis's hair. "And he liked nothing better than a few well-woven plaits in a woman's hair!"

Aravis looked at herself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize herself. The makeup was obvious—her cheeks were flushed and her lips red, and her eyes were much darker against her skin than before. And her hair was done much the way she had seen Hana wear hers: pulled back from the forehead, full, and plaited all together to the back of her neck. She felt uncomfortably exposed.

"Come, let's show the menfolk!" Janey cheered as Hana kohled her eyes.

Aravis's blood ran cold, but Hana had her up on her feet and she was rewinding Janey's veil before she knew what was happening. "I really don't want to show them," she stammered.

"Nonsense! Every woman likes being the object of men's attention."

Aravis suddenly felt like she was being barred up in a dungeon cell. "_I_ don't—"

Janey seized her by the hand, and together the three of them clattered down the stairs. Cor and H.C were standing by the fire at the end of the hall, talking animatedly while the other men wandered about, gazing at the murals. All of them had goblets of mead in their hands, and Aravis swallowed, remembering the last time Darrin had had too much to drink.

"Look what the lady Aravis transformed me into!" Janey called with a laugh, her voice painfully loud to Aravis's ears. "She has made me a beauty!"

Everyone turned to look at them. Janey and Hana certainly got the most attention—Janey with her captivating dark eyes above the veil and Hana with her natural high color and fair hair.

"You look beautiful, all of you," H.C. said broadly. "Doesn't my daughter look exceptional tonight, Your Royal Highness?"

"I think he looks like a guppy," Janey giggled. "Sire, your eyes are goggling!"

"Of course," said Cor, the rather slack-jawed look on his face disappearing in an instant as Aravis looked away, muffling a laugh. "I have never seen anything lovelier."

"We should have some music!" Janey said happily.

H.C. bobbed his head eagerly and, clapping his hands, sent a servant scurrying from the hall to fetch musicians. "My daughter is the most excellent dancer, sire," he said to Cor as other servants hurried about pushing the table and benches to the side to clear a space for dancing. "I hope you will be pleased with her."

"I already am, I assure you," Cor said with a tiny hint of amusement in his voice. "Janey, would you honor me with the first dance—"

"Of course!" She took his hand and dragged him onto the floor.

A few harried-looking musicians came bustling into the room and were seated quickly, the thin sounds of their tuning instruments filling the high-ceilinged room. Janey clapped her hands and said, "Play 'The Noisy Tern'!"

Hana gasped and clapped her hands as the musicians screeched and squeaked their way into her favorite tune. "Ooh, I wish I could dance…"

"Corin, you should dance with Hana," Aravis urged, smiling. "Cor's busy with Janey!"

"Oh, do," Hana pleaded.

Corin's chest puffed up, and he swaggered over with an arm extended. "Might I have the hon—"

Hana grabbed his wrist and spun away with him, leaving Aravis standing rather awkwardly near H.C., who was tapping his foot to the music. "They look well together, do they not?" he asked her, bobbing his head.

Aravis wasn't sure who he was talking about, so she just nodded.

When 'The Noisy Tern' concluded, Cor was out of breath but Janey, the veil drooping off her face, turned and called for 'Two Hornpipes,' and Cor looked horrified at the prospect before Corin stepped in and graciously allowed him the use of Hana, who chattered animatedly up at him for the duration of the dance.

Finally, 'If It Wasna For Your Wellies' started up and Janey broke off for a drink. Breathing heavily, Cor hurried from the floor and stood by Aravis, his face red with exertion.

"Out of practice?" she teased him.

"Hardly," he snorted. "I shall prove it. Give me your hand—"

"—No, I don't want to dance—"

"Don't be ridiculous, you've gotten all done up—"

"Oh, don't talk about that—"

"Why not? You look simply _bewitching_—"

"Don't tease—"

"I'm not teasing! _Delectable_—"

"_Cor_!"

"_Lovely_. Really, though. I mean—you always look lovely—of course—I mean—but particularly so tonight—er—did you do something different with your hair?"

Aravis's cheeks were so hot with discomfiture that they seemed likely to burst into flame; she crossed her arms and looked at the wall. "Fine. Just this one, though."

Cor laughed and pushed her out onto the floor just in time for the reel. "How do you like Janey?" Aravis asked a few moments in, once she'd found her bearings.

"Quite a lot. She would have had me in stitches laughing if I'd have had the breath."

"Well, Hana was thinking—"

"Yes, she told me. But what do you think?"

"Of Janey as queen?" Aravis fell silent for a moment, focusing her gaze on his collarbone as the heat of his hand on her back began to soak through to her skin. "It's up to you to decide, isn't it?"

He put his arm a little closer around her. "You know how well that went last time. I told you, Aravis, I can't do this without your help."

The look on his face was a genuinely remorseful one, and Aravis had to grant him a teasing smile. "Ah, you're starting to learn. Well, I think she's quite nice, and it's high time you picked another girl. Lune will adore her, I'm sure."

"And the two of you get on?" he pressed.

"Splendidly."

He nodded. "Then it's settled. I'll speak to H.C. in the morning. But as for now" —he pinched her just lightly enough to make her squeal— "let's dance, hm? Who knows when will be the next time?"


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

_Chapter Thirty-Four_

The agreement was made late that night over tumblers of brandy. Aravis was fast asleep in her cozy narrow bed when H.C. consented to let his eldest daughter travel with the future king of Archenland as a candidate for his queen, but Hana woke her first thing the next morning with the news.

"You seem strangely happy for someone whose chances of becoming queen just decreased by fifty percent," Aravis said groggily, rolling out of bed and rubbing the back of her head where it was still slightly tender from the whack Gyneth had given it.

"But I like Janey," Hana repeated. She pulled out a fresh shift for Aravis to don and gave it to her.

"Like her or not, she's competition."

"She would make a better queen than I. She's the daughter of a mayor!"

Aravis eyed her as she slipped into the shift and reached for the thin summer frock and trousers she would be wearing for the next few days. "One would think you didn't want to be queen."

Hana colored. "And what if I don't?"

She straightened, brushing out her tangled hair. "I am sorry to break the news to you, Hana, but if you marry Cor, you will eventually be queen."

Hana shrugged.

"Don't you want to marry Cor?"

She shrugged again.

Aravis found herself at a loss for words. "You—but—who _wouldn't_ want to marry Cor? He's—young and handsome and kind—and will be _king_—I don't understand, Hana!"

Hana was bright red, but she maintained her fierce look as she folded her arms and met Aravis's gaze. "_You_ don't want to marry him, Aravis!"

Struck speechless again, Aravis moved about the room, dazedly gathering up her belongings and shoving them into her satchel. "That may be true, but I'm also not a candidate for the position, now, am I?"

"You of all people should understand," Hana said fiercely. "It isn't _Cor_—I mean, there's nothing wrong with him, I just…if I was back in Wolfdell…I might pick someone else, is all."

Aravis was divided between feeling rightfully abashed and suddenly curious. "You're right, Hana," she said sheepishly, swinging her satchel over her shoulder. "But…_who_ would you pick, exactly?"

Hana gave her a stricken look, her blush turning mottled, and swept from the room in indignation.

"I'm sorry," Aravis called, hurrying after her, "was that rude?"

"Probably," said Cor as she ran straight into him on the stairs. "Where's the fire?"

"Oh, sorry, Cor. Everything go all right last night?"

"As well as can be expected. Janey's more excited about seeing the treasury's collection of fine art than possibly becoming queen, I think."

Aravis had to laugh. "She will make you a fine mate—you can spend your conjugal nights rhapsodizing about Mactevis and his _Illumination of the Windowsill _and _Study of Floorboards_."

Cor snorted. "Aravis, you know I'm partial to Westeron's _Painting of Our Most Esteemed Capital City Anvard With a View Towards Promoting Archenlandian Trade in the International Community_."

"Simply riveting."

"_Oi!_ Old hens! Some of us want to get to our breakfasts, you know."

Aravis realized then that she and Cor were completely blocking the stairway, and Corin and a few servants were waiting somewhat less than patiently at the head. "Sorry," Cor said to her. "I've left my things upstairs—"

"And I've got to eat, aye," Aravis replied, suddenly flustered. Cor flattened himself against the wall and she slid past him, her face feeling warm for some reason.

Janey, Hana, Darrin, Ram, and Borran were already seated at the table, and Janey passed her a platter of fresh summer fruit and various cheeses. "Sleep well?" Aravis asked her, choosing a peach and a hunk of cheddar.

Janey was practically glowing, but she only smiled and nodded demurely. "Quite so. And you?"

"Perfectly. Are you ready to shove off today?"

"Yes—Hana was a dear and helped me this morning."

Hana beamed.

Aravis cut into her peach. "I do have some record-keeping to do with you…but you needn't worry about it yet. We can do it later."

Janey looked supremely unconcerned, and a contented silence filled the room. All was well. For now.

_A/N: Welp, I had more planned for this chapter, but it just didn't fit. So. Consider this a transition chapter. :) _


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

_Chapter Thirty-Five_

The company that departed from Roscommon had been quiet and somewhat depressing without Dar and his men to tell off-color jokes and bellow for more beer. The company that departed from Hiddlestown, though, was boisterous and in high spirits, Janey's infectious good humor taking their minds off of the sweltering heat. It was hard not to like the plump woman—she quickly made fast friends of all the companions, even Darrin and Borran, who doted on her like a daughter. Cor pulled Aravis aside several times over the course of the next few weeks to tell her what hilarious thing Janey had said lately, and she soon got it out of him that if they were to return to Anvard that minute, Janey would be the new queen of Archenland.

Hana, upon hearing this from Aravis, squealed with delight and clapped her hands. "I am _so_ proud!" she said happily, her curls bouncing before she turned and hurried off, pink-cheeked.

Aravis was confused and somewhat bewildered by the giggling and bright eyes that seemed to have possessed the companions; it was as if everyone had a secret joke with each other that she was not privy to.

Their arrival at the city of Kostis was a relief to her. They made camp under a spreading yew tree some distance from the gates as the blistering noon sun was high overhead, and the noise of a cheerfully babbling stream drowned out most conversation.

"I'm going to go into Kostis," Cor announced after a languid lunch. "Winter is coming—"

"It doesn't _feel _like it," Janey moaned, fanning her face with a tin plate.

Cor inclined his head. "I promise, winter _is_ coming, and we haven't any supplies for it—no good blankets, no ice shoes for the horses, no extra flints, and we're running low on mead and porridge. Does anyone want to come along?"

"Will there be other cities between here and Castle Zohra?" Corin asked from where he lounged in the shade between two roots.

Cor nodded.

Corin stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and closed his eyes. "I'll wait, then."

There was a general murmur of agreement, and Cor looked at them all half-heartedly. "You mean to tell me none of you want to visit a city you've never seen before?"

"We've all been," said everyone almost in unison.

"I'll go with you, Cor," Aravis said with a sigh. "The last thing we need is for you to get lost in a port city."

"You'd find me eventually," Cor said reproachfully as he helped her wrestle Inga back into her saddle and clamber up.

"Yes—as a slave on a galley ship halfway to Galma, perhaps. Young, blond, fit, and handsome—a slaver's dream."

"Are you calling me handsome?" Cor cut in with a broad grin.

"Go away," she retorted, her face heating up. "Or I won't talk to you anymore."

"Am I being a naughty boy?" he went on shamelessly.

Aravis turned Inga's head and urged her forward.

"Wait!" Cor called. "I haven't even done Raider up yet—"

Inga nibbled on some clover as she ambled forward at a lazy pace, waiting for Cor to get up on Raider; Aravis dropped the reins across the saddle and stretched, her legs a bit sore from the long days of riding. "When we get back to Anvard," she said to Inga, whose ears twitched at the sound of her voice, "I will see to it that you have fresh carrots and all the sugar you could eat every day."

Inga's sides quivered as she gave a nicker that sounded suspiciously like '_See that you do, girl-human_.'

"Wooooo_hooooooooooooo_!"

The ground shook and there was a blast of wind that sent Aravis's plait flying; Cor and Raider had shot past them like an arrow loosed from its bow, Cor lying nearly flat against his horse's thick neck as they thundered away towards the distant city walls.

Inga tossed her magnificent head and sidestepped impatiently. Aravis gathered up the reins, settling down into the saddle as Inga snorted and bugled after Raider. "We shouldn't let the boys win," she said musingly, stroking Inga's mane. "They'll get big heads, won't they? _Yah_!"

Her heels had scarcely touched Inga's sides when the animal burst into motion, given her head for the first time in months. Sod flew from her sharp hooves, and Aravis shifted forward in the saddle and put her head down low over the animal's high neck, stretching her hands out along the muscle so the reins were loose in her fingers. Inga was of the bloodline of the First Horse, bred for generations by the Archenlanders to an equestrian perfection that had never been matched by any other race; Aravis, a descendent of those nomadic horsemen that roamed the Great Desert in the time of the First Men, had horse in her blood, but even the Calormene steeds with their beautiful, concave faces and slender legs were nothing compared to the power and speed of a Northern horse.

The horse and the girl flew across the plain together, the high grasses brushing Aravis's ankles and the wind pulling her hair from its plait. Riding Inga was like riding water; they flowed over hillock and sinkhole after Cor and Raider, an unstoppable rush of flesh and blood and power. They pounded on together, the crash of Inga's hooves with the ground coinciding with the roar of Aravis's heart in her ears until she couldn't tell where human ended and horse began—they were one entity, a perfect collision of agility and intelligence, hastening onward and upward forever.

It was over abruptly. Inga splashed through a thin rivulet and, snorting, circled around to plunge her soft grey nose into the cool water. Aravis, the reins pulled from her trembling fingers, looked up and saw for the first time that the walls of Kostis loomed high above her and that Cor and Raider were only just pulling up alongside them.

"I guess I win," she said, and was surprised to hear a quaver in her voice.

Cor gazed at her for a moment. "Fair and square," he ceded softly.

She moistened her dry lips and began to pull her tousled curls back into their plait. Her face felt flushed and her eyes burned as if she were on the verge of a good cry, but instead of a sob, a laugh burst from her lips. Cor slid down from Raider and held a hand up to her; she took it and practically fell from the saddle into his waiting arms, where he held her hard against him for a long while.

Horses had played such an essential role in her friendship with Cor that it was hard sometimes for Aravis to separate one from the other—they were the only things in the world that could work her up to such extremes of pain and pleasure. She breathed deeply of him, of the smells of his skin and Raider's sweat and grass and rain and ink and old books.

"When's the last time we saw Bree and Hwin?" she whispered against his tunic.

He brushed his cheek against her hair and tugged more of it free from her plait. "Too long ago."

Aravis turned her head just slightly; the angle of his jaw came into view, then the curve of his lower lip. Heat washed over her face as a whisper of a notion flitted about in the dark recesses of her mind, but then, as soon as it appeared, it was gone, and she stepped away abruptly. "We should get on," she said, looking at the gate. "It's already afternoon."

Cor was still holding onto her sleeve. She glanced at him sharply, but he too had a surprised expression on his face, and he quickly released her. "You're right," he said after clearing his throat. "Don't want to be locked in overnight."

They took the horses' reins and began to walk toward the west gate, where a steady stream of oxcarts, horses, pedestrians, and soldiers was passing to and fro.

"The king's toll!" came an authoritative cry above the noise of the crowd as they waited for their turn to pass through the gate. "Pay the king's toll!"

"An entry toll?" Cor said, sounding confused. "Those are only used in times of war."

"Are we at war?" Aravis asked.

"Not that I'm aware of. One would think he'd have told me if we were…"

There was a commotion of voices somewhere ahead of them in line. The authoritative voice was saying, "…and the king's toll must be paid!"

"The king can rot," spat another voice. "Thinkin' 'e can charge a tax 'en the 'arvest ain't even in yet!"

"We all must give our dues, man. You pay your tolls—"

"They's _taxes_—"

"_—Tolls_, and the mayor of Kostis can pay his soldiers to protect us all. That is how it works."

"'Protect us'? _Bunkum_. Where's t'mayor been when our livestock is bein' sucked dry in t'night? Where is 'e when whole fields burst int' flame and turn to ash 'n a minute? T'king is out o' touch if'n 'e thinks we can pay _more taxes_ when t'ere ain't even a war on!"

There was a loud grumble of agreement from the crowd at large that made Aravis's blood run cold. Cor swung up into his saddle, and she did the same; the whole scene was laid out before them. The authoritative speaker was a little old man in a scholar's robes seated at a long table, and his opponent was a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in dusty, dirty homespun.

"May'ap it's time fer the new king to take 'is throne," the dirty farmer went on, "t'boy. 'E's one of us, ain't 'e? Spent 'is young life as a Cal'rmene slave? I bet _'e_ knows wha' a _tax_ is!"

"I can assure you," said the scholar, "based on my very own eyes, His Royal Highness the High Prince Cor is as dutiful to the kingdom's well-being as his father is. Taxes under him shall be no more lenient, mark my words."

"Have you ever even seen the High Prince?"

It took Aravis a moment to realize it had been Cor who spoke. He was sitting ramrod-straight in his saddle, his hands casual but tight on the reins, with a look of blazing intensity in his face that even Aravis could see. People turned to stare, and she couldn't really blame them.

The scholar cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, boy, I _have_. He and I are close acquaintances."

"Hm," said Cor, who had never met the man.

"I don' give a pig's fart as to 'oo knows 'oo," said the farmer. "I'll pay t'bloody toll, but just this once! If'n I don't sell my 'erd 'afore winter, what's left o' 'em, my family'll starve."

He threw a few gold coins onto the table, got back up on his scruffy pony, and rode off onto the busy city streets. The scholar sighed, looking frazzled, and said, "Next."

Cor pushed his way up to the table and Aravis followed; the crowds parted willingly for the fine, muscular horseflesh. "Oh, you again," said the scholar. "Two horses and two riders? Three gilds for the day, if you please. King's toll."

"Three gilds?" Cor burst out. "For just the two of us?"

"That's the law, boy. His Majesty the King decrees it."

Cor's face started to turn red, and Aravis had the sudden urge to leap across the gap between their horses and hold his mouth shut, but it was too late; he jerked Raider's head up sharply so the horse snorted and pawed. "The law, _man_," he spat out, "reads that mayors of cities have the privilege of instituting temporary taxes on foodstuff and luxury goods under the king's name as times of war or economic necessity require. These taxes must be submitted in duplicate to the king at Anvard to be approved by the minister of the treasury and the Privy Council before proceeding to the king's desk. If the king approves the measure, the tax may be instituted for periods of six months _only_. I know bloody well this toll is unlawful, _sir_."

The scholar had turned a funny whey color, but he simply folded his hands and said, "Well, who knew they trained farmhands in royal law? Forgive me, boy, if I do not take heed of your words. The toll, please."

"The king will hear about this," Cor ground out. "And he'll hear about _you_ in particular."

As Cor threw three gilds onto the table and urged Raider into the crowds of the main street, Aravis heard the scholar laugh bitterly. "And how do you plan to do that, boy? Are you going to go see the king for Sunday dinner? _Bah_."

Aravis reached out and laid a hand on Cor's arm to keep him from turning around and charging back at the long table. "_Cor_," she said warningly, "we don't want to be locked in overnight, remember? Not in the city, but _especially_ not in the dungeon."

"I would have known if Kostis had applied for a tax," he grumbled. "I sat in on every Privy Council meeting, and Father tells me everything. I saw the list of cities with a temporary tax, and Kostis was nowhere on it."

"Write to him," Aravis urged.

"You can be sure that I will. No one uses my father's name—or _mine_—to bleed commoners dry. Speaking of—did you hear what that farmer was saying about his livestock?"

"Yes," she said grimly. "And the fields. It's like what that guard in Hiddlestown was telling us."

"We need to find out what is going on," he said, his face settling into solemn lines. "I don't like it—any of it. Revolutionaries…mysterious disappearances…dead livestock…"

"I don't envy you one bit," Aravis sighed. "I'm grateful I shall never be queen of anything."

Cor was silent, and they continued on into the city in this manner. They stopped soon enough at a blacksmith's stall, and Cor purchased several dozen winter horseshoes from him at the price of eight gilds. Raider snorted with displeasure as Cor tied the heavy bags to the saddle, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Cor swore in a tone that sounded very much like Raider's.

"Goodness," Aravis replied dryly.

"Eight gi—_eight gilds,_ Aravis! We're down eleven gilds and we've scarcely begun. They're bleeding us dry here! We're running low on cash as it is already."

"We'll have to get creative," Aravis answered. "Buy what we can and work or trade for the rest."

"It was enough of a stretch to get the men to bend their backs to planting Gyneth's father's fields," Cor snorted. "D'you really think I can get them to do much else?"

"Harvest is coming up, you know. We could hire ourselves out for a week or so in exchange for winter clothes and foodstuff, oats for the horses and such."

Cor grunted in response. "And if Rhys and the like refuse to dirty their hands?"

"Then they don't eat. It's simple, really."

"Treating grown lords like naughty children?"

"I use it on you all the time. Works wonders."

She glanced over at him; he was chewing his lips, still peeved at the blacksmith, but there was a smirk on them that he was having trouble hiding.

The smile did not last long, though; at each stall they halted at, the prices grew more and more outrageous. Finally, Cor threw a halter back down onto the counter-top and stormed back to where Aravis waited, his freckled face mottled red with fury, a look Aravis had really only seen a handful of times.

"Are you not buying extra tack?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," he fumed. "Not at these prices!"

"We'll look elsewhere. That man isn't the only tanner in Archenland."

Cor kicked Raider into a fast walk, and Aravis urged Inga to match it. "Cor."

"This is _bollocks_," Cor snapped. "Utter bloody rubbish. We've spent over half of what is left today, Aravis. Half! Half of what we had this morning is all that is to get us through the next eight months—"

"It'll be enough," Aravis said bracingly. "We've always found ways, you know—the two of us. We made it from Tashbaan to Anvard without stopping to buy supplies, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

"And if two children and their horses can do it, why can't a dozen adults? Now stop looking so serious and let's have a bite to eat. I highly doubt they overcharge for a bit of sweet bread."

As it turned out, Aravis was right about this. A few hapennies later, she and Cor were seated on an overturned barrel near the city square, nibbling lightly on their snack. "I just never imagined a government would be so crass about it," Cor said as Aravis cut an apple and gave half to Inga.

"You'd be surprised at a lot of things, then," she answered gently. "The nonsense that goes on behind your father's back is shameful. But it happens everywhere, all the time. You'll have to learn to spot it if you can, fix it if you can, and then be content if you can't. Even kings aren't omnipotent, you know."

"As much as they'd like to think they are." Cor sliced his apple, too, and put half of it in her hand. "But sometimes I think everyone expects me to go about like I've got a thousand eyes, when I've really got only one."

"It'll be all right. Besides. You'll have Janey or Hana to share the burden with, won't you?"

Cor gave a snorting laugh. "Aye, I suppose."

"Queen Janey of Archenland."

"What a title!"

Aravis played with the crust of her bread, the crumbs falling onto her lap. "She quite likes you, I think."

"Well, I'm flattered."

"And I think you like her too."

Cor smiled and threw the rest of his bread to a few pigeons nearby. "Well, Janey is hard not to like, I think."

"I just…"

"Just what?"

"Oh, nothing."

He leaned forward until she raised her eyes to meet his. "Go on, Aravis. You've never kept secrets from me before."

She bit her lip. "Well, I was just thinking…that it seems a little soon for you to be thinking of making her your queen."

"Well, I did ask her to marry me."

"Yes, but you hardly know her."

"I hardly knew Hana."

"You hardly knew Gyneth."

Cor stood up abruptly. "When are you going to stop throwing that in my face, Aravis?"

"I'm not throwing it in your face—"

"As if I don't already feel bad enough—"

"I'm just trying to caution you—"

"I've learned my lesson!" Cor slammed his wineskin back into his saddlebag. "Never look at a pretty face again—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Aravis snapped, stung that Cor had split her and Gyneth into two categories, pretty faces and not pretty faces.

"Oh, now I'm being ridiculous. Typical."

"Just because I have eyes in my head and don't let my desperate need for a good snog cloud my judgment—"

"What do you call _Darrin_, then?"

"A welcome respite from your dramatics—"

"Now _I'm_ the dramatic one—"

"Yes! You are!"

"Good on Darrin," Cor spat, "getting out of marrying you just in time."

Cor's acid tone stung deeply, and Aravis suddenly lost the will to fight with him. "I hope you and Janey will be very happy," she said coldly. "If she can stand you, that is." And so, seizing Inga's reins, Aravis stalked away, disappearing into the anonymity of a crowd.

She made it back to camp long before Cor did. If anyone had a suspicion that something was wrong, they said nothing, and by the time Cor came back, she was happily engaged in a game of runkle with Hana, Corin, and Ram, and unfortunately runkle was only meant to be played by four people. Cor could not join in—and, if Aravis had anything to say about it, would _never_ join in.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

_Chapter Thirty-Six_

The decision was made over the next few days to travel southward until harvest time, when the entire band would find a farm and offer their services as field hands in exchange for winter supplies. Janey and Hana were game enough, as Aravis knew they would be, but Rhys immediately put up a fight. He found the idea of working in a field "unsuitable" and "quite demeaning," if the many loud arguments he and Cor had about it were any indication.

Nevertheless, as the majority opinion was that it was a good idea, Rhys had no choice but to go along with it, and his grumbling acquiescence was enough to bolster everyone's moods.

Aravis and Cor still weren't speaking, however. She had begun to regret bringing up her qualms about Janey, but Cor's chilly demeanor made her reluctant to apologize. Besides, she thought often, why should she be the one to apologize? Cor had been the one to antagonize the situation, as usual.

And so August wore into September; the days were still hot and sunny, but the nights began to grow colder and longer. As they rode steadily southward, the trees started to turn yellow, and then into red, and the heads on the staves of wheat grew until they were near bursting.

Finally, Cor decided it was time. The next morning, dressed in sensible clothes and comfortable shoes, the women with their hair bound back tightly, they ventured off the kingsroad. Darrin took Janey, Hana, Corin, and Rhys to a small farm nestled into the hills, and Cor took the rest of the men and Aravis to a somewhat larger operation a few miles down the road.

The sun was barely up when Cor knocked on the door of the quaint little farmhouse, but it cracked open almost immediately, showing a sliver of a sunburned cheek and a blue eye. "What do you want?" said the cheek.

"We seek employment," said Cor.

"We haven't any money." The door snapped shut.

"Hear me out, please," Cor called, knocking on the door again.

A few moments passed, and then the door creaked open again. "I told you, we haven't got any money."

"We don't seek money."

"Then what do you want?"

"We wish to work in your fields until the harvest is in," Cor replied defensively. "In exchange, we ask for our meals for the time, and some supplies to help us through the winter."

The door squeaked open a bit wider, and the prettiest face Aravis had ever seen peered out. The young woman it belonged to was a picture of Archenlandian perfection the likes of which had been painted hundreds of times: porcelain skin, slightly sunburned, a pink mouth, long limbs, a petite bosom, pale blue eyes, and a thick head of dark red hair. "I'm not sure if we need 'elp," she said slowly, looking Cor up and down with an expression of feminine appreciation Aravis was not a unfamiliar with. "And you're not from 'round 'ere, are you?"

Cor had been struck speechless. "Er—ah—"

"No," Aravis broke in brusquely. "We are travelers from the north."

"So I can see," the woman replied coolly. Her eyes, which had flicked over to Aravis when she spoke, slid back to Cor.

"Are you the owner of this farm?" Cor asked politely.

"No, my brother is," the woman answered. She colored prettily and added, "I'm not married."

"Nor am I," he blurted out.

Aravis closed her eyes and prayed for patience as the two laughed sheepishly. "Would you be so kind as to fetch your brother?" she said. "We wouldn't wish to keep you from your work."

The woman eyed Aravis for a moment, then looked back at Cor and smiled. "One moment," she said, and slipped back into the cottage.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Cor turned back, and Aravis saw two spots of color high on his freckled cheeks. _Typical,_ she thought. _Two women desperate for his attention and he wants a third_.

"She's a lovely woman," said Ram neutrally.

Cor nodded. Just then, the cottage door swung open again, and a dark-haired, deeply tanned man in dirty trousers and a stained tunic stepped out, the red-haired woman close behind. "Greetings," he said in a deep bass voice. "You's the travelers m'sister told me about."

"Indeed," Cor replied, pushing his shoulders back. "We seek—"

The man waved his hand. "She told me. You hard workers?"

"The hardest," Ram assured him.

He surveyed them all with a practiced eye. "You'll work sunup to sundown, righ', at whatever I say. 'N if I'm satisfied wi' your work, then 'n only then will you get your supplies."

"I think that's fair enough," Cor said.

"Right," said the man. "Now who are you, exa'ly?"

"I'm Cadoc," Cor said with a thin smile.

"You from the North." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Hmph." The farmer looked expectantly at the others.

"I'm Finuala," Aravis said dutifully, doing her best to flatten the faint accent out of her words.

"Hywell," said Nim.

"Finn," grunted Sir Borran.

"Nevin of Newry," Dor said politely.

"Brennus," said Romith.

"Ram," said Ram.

The farmer grunted. "I'm Lognar," he said shortly. "Brann's me wife, she's lyin' in with the new babe—this 'ere's me sister Ragna." He looked at Cor for a long while. "You'll be sleepin' under the stars, men. Madam Finuala, we c'n arrange for—"

"I'll sleep with them, thank you," Aravis said calmly.

Lognar nodded slowly. "Well, yous might lodge the 'orses in the cowfield, like…t'stable's small, but she'll serve. After that, I'll take yous out to the field and show you what's what."

So they rubbed the horses down and let them loose in the pasture. Inga tossed her head and cantered away the moment Aravis released the halter, but she couldn't blame her one bit. The luggage and supplies they stored safely in Lognar's dark but dry stable under a pile of loose hay, and then Lognar, the sleeves of his tunic tied up, set them to work.

Cor, Romith, and Dor, being the youngest and strongest of the men, were sent out into the nearest field with murderous-looking sickles over their shoulders and huge bushels under their arms; these would be the companions' tools for the next fortnight. The rest followed, Lognar speaking loudly and quickly and motioning with his hands as he explained what he wanted them to do. The harvest had already begun, he explained, but he had very little help—his younger brothers lived nearby, but they were getting busy with their own crops.

Once out in the field, the men took up the sickles and set to work. Harvesting wheat was a fairly simple process, Lognar said; the men would take a handful of stalks, swing the sickle a few inches below the bud, and toss the heap to the ground, where Aravis would make large bundles and bind them up carefully.

"How hard could this be?" Cor said cheerfully, tossing the sickle from one hand to the other.

Aravis had grown up watching her father's slaves working the fields in the blistering Calormene heat, so she said nothing.

Since they were learning the process, the six of them worked slowly, inching their way across the many acres that awaited them. It was backbreaking work. The wheat stalks were rough and dirty, and they cut her hands as she wrestled them into some semblance of the neat bundles she had seen hundreds of times in paintings and in passing.

Still, her job wasn't as hard as the men's. As the sun rose higher in the sky, she could see even from a distance the sweat dripping from their brows. One by one they pulled off their tunics and wrapped them around their waists to soak up the sweat that dripped down their backs. Aravis watched them enviously, sweltering in her thin shift and wishing she too could pull it off and work bare-chested.

Around mid-morning, Ragna came by with cold well water to drink. She had done up her red hair, Aravis noticed, so that it framed her face, and as she went to Cor with her jar and ladle, she tugged a curl loose so she could wrap it around her finger as she talked with him. Meanwhile, Cor leaned on a pitchfork, the sweat shining on his freckled chest. It was tanning, Aravis noticed vaguely, not burning, and every time he laughed, the muscles on his stomach leapt prominently to the surface.

"You should rinse those hands," Lognar's gruff voice interrupted.

Aravis jumped a little and looked at her palms, streaked with dirt and blood. "I suppose," she answered noncommittally.

He poured a bit of water from another ladle onto them, and she scrubbed them off on her skirt. "You are not Northern," he said sternly.

"No."

"And you are clearly not accustomed to hard work."

With that, he strode off, and Aravis couldn't help but feel a little indignant—admittedly, she'd never worked in the fields under a hot sun, but had Lognar ever ridden for days in a saddle, the reins working thick calluses between his fingers, or organized an entire castle around an important dignitary's visit, or sat in as clerk on an important Privy Council meeting and written nonstop for seven hours? She thought it was very unlikely.

Ragna came round to her at this time, and Aravis drank deeply of the water she offered. "Tomorrow you will help me with preserving," she said. "The summer vegetables came in last week and must be put away."

Aravis eyed her over the ladle. "I will help," she said at last.

Ragna nodded briefly and went away.

The work did not get easier as the day went on. At lunch, they collapsed beneath the paltry shade of a spreading oak tree, weary and weak-limbed; even Aravis was relieved to see Ragna approaching with buckets of sandwiches in each hand. Unfortunately, the food came at the price of Ragna's continued presence, and the six other companions had to endure a half-hour's worth of awkward flirting. Ragna was beautiful, that anyone could see, but Aravis quickly realized, upon hearing her ask Cor how far North was from the farm, that she was far from brilliant. In another situation, she might have hoped Cor would equate the girl with the "silly palace ladies" he had professed to have no time for, but for some reason, he seemed unable to look past Ragna's awe at his intellect.

"How can you know so much!" she gasped at least three times that lunchtime.

They returned to the work with heavy hearts. This time, Aravis traded places with Nim, whose age made the physical effort all the more burdensome. The sickle fit uncomfortably in her sore hands, but the rhythmic swinging and stooping was a welcome change from her previous scrambling and squatting and binding.

Dinnertime came not a moment too soon, but after the meal of stew and fresh bread, there was still more work to be done—scythes to be sharpened, grain flails to mend, and record-keeping to attend to. (As usual, Aravis was relegated to this duty, though her swollen fingers could scarcely grasp the pencil as she listed out the work that had been accomplished that day.)

As soon as the last instrument had been returned to the storage shed, Lognar bid a curt goodnight and went inside. The companions fetched their bedrolls and headed for the pasture to sleep with the horses, but Cor lingered by the cottage a while longer to speak with Ragna, the occasional word and bobble of laughter floating up to Aravis's ears as she tried to sleep.

Some time near dawn, just when the world is darkest, Aravis awoke in a state of rather acute discomfort. Her hands throbbed and ached like they were caught in a vise, and she sat up groggily, trying to see them by the dim light of the campfire. Sure enough, they had blistered over in spots, and sleeping on the ground had broken them open so they were weeping sores. It was a pitiful sight, and a kind of gasping groan escaped her as she flexed her fingers.

"Blisters?" came Cor's low voice.

Aravis was fully awake in a moment. "Just a few," she said stiffly.

"Me, too. Put some of this salve on." And there he was, emerging into the shadowy circle of orange light with a vial of pale paste in a bandaged hand.

Aravis took it warily, spreading the concoction on her burning skin. It cooled immediately, and she couldn't help but sigh a little as Cor helped her wrap a thin bandage around the worst bits.

"Thank you," she said momentarily.

He nodded briefly.

There was suddenly a hundred things she wanted to say, and a thousand more she wanted to ask, but she held her tongue and smiled tautly. "Better get some sleep, then."

"Aye."

He retreated back to his bedroll, and she curled back up on her own. It had been some kind of mutual apology, their speaking again, she thought vaguely, but it felt a great deal emptier than it ever had in the past.

* * *

_A/N: Well, there's more that could be said, but I figured you guys would want this chapter sooner and a bit shorter rather than later and longer! Stay tuned for more of Lognar and Ragna…_


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

_Chapter Thirty-Seven_

The next morning, Lognar came to wake them early with a light breakfast. He had heard tell of bad storms in the west, and thus the faster they could get the wheat in, the better off his family would be in the long run. And so, stiff and sore, the companions split off to their duties.

"Madam Finuala, you's to help Ragna wi' preserving t'day," Lognar reminded her.

"I know," she said resignedly, flexing her aching fingers. "Where am I to go?"

He motioned for her to follow, and she trudged after him through the muddy barnyard to the back door of the farmhouse. "Make sure she 'members to bring us luncheon early," he grunted. "'ll be a scorcher t'day."

Aravis, though she was not overwhelmed with delight at the idea of spending the whole day with Ragna, could not help but be relieved that she also would be spending the whole day indoors, out of the sun. Lognar opened the door to the farmhouse and motioned her in, and then he was gone.

The house was dark and smoky. As her eyes adjusted, Aravis could see that it was a typical farmer's house—built long and low, no walls other than the four outer ones. Boundaries and privacy were established by bear hides and hanging tapestries of a quality much lesser than could be seen in a castle or palace, and they were stained with smoke and age. Somewhere in the far corner, a baby fussed, and there was the homey sound of a mother humming to it.

Ragna was in the middle of the building, squatting over a low fire. As Aravis came further in, she glanced up and said, "Oh, are you up, then?"

"Yes," Aravis said wryly.

"Good. There's quite a bit o' preservin' to do t'day. Summer strawberries—vegetables—acorns—"

"Yes, well, let's get to work, then."

Ragna straightened and motioned to the fire. "I've got t'strawberries cookin' already. Keep stirrin'—don't let 'em bubble. I'll go get the rest of t'things."

Aravis, now resigned to her fate, knelt down by the hot hearth and stirred the mass of steaming pink goo that sizzled in an iron pot. It smelled delicious, much as she disliked to admit.

Ragna soon returned with her arms and apron laden with bushels of fruits and vegetables and a mortar and pestle, and then she went back for a multitude of small stone jars. Aravis gazed at these little containers and realized with a sinking heart that she would be expected to fill them all that day.

And so they worked, the heat and smoke of the fire making Aravis wish she had been allowed to work outside, where at last there was fresh air, though it was growing sticky and heavy. A few hours into the morning, she and Ragna brought clay jars of cold well water out to the workers, and the sun burned her eyes. It was getting more and more oppressive as they strode across the mown field towards the workers, and as they watched, Cor laid down his sickle, wiped his brow lingeringly, and then tugged his tunic over his head. Aravis had seen men remove their shirts—and certainly Cor more than once—but there was something intimate about the way he did it this time, slowly and with his back to the mid-morning sun.

"Aravis."

Ram's low voice startled her out of her introspection, and she saw that Ragna had left her side and gone right to Cor with her water jug. She cleared her throat. "Er—sorry."

He eyed her as he drank deeply from the ladle. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

The ginger man shrugged his huge bare shoulders. Aravis saw that under the thick coppery hair on his breast there were a few faint scars. "You've seemed a bit distracted lately, 'sall."

"Aren't we all?" she sighed.

Ram smiled and moved off so Dor could have a go at the water.

Descending back into the smoky depths of the farmhouse was near torture after the fresh air of outdoors, but Aravis held her chin high and scrubbed squash for mashing as Ragna went on and on about how to make a smooth squash soup without milk. If there was one thing she had to begrudging give the redhead, it was that she knew her foodstuffs. There wasn't a vegetable or legume that Ragna couldn't pickle, preserve, or mash into a stew of sorts.

Still, Aravis thought, listening to her go on, it was incomprehensible to her that anyone could be so genuinely dense.

"D'you reckon," Ragna said suddenly in the midst of a monologue about the right time of the month to pick radishes, "that plants 'ave little brains?"

"What?" Aravis replied with confusion.

"You know," Ragna pressed, pouring a bit of wax over the cork of the jar she had just finished filling with pickled pears, "they alwa's grow at _exac'ly_ the same time o'year! Ever' year! D'you reckon they 'ave little brains what tell 'em when to pop up?"

Aravis looked at her for a long moment. "No," she said at last, scrubbing the last squash with more vigor than was necessary.

It was several more hours before Ragna stirred from her musings on food. "Egads," she shrieked, leaping from her seat, "it's long pas' luncheon—I've forgot t'bring 'em food—"

"They'll be wilting," Aravis said dryly.

"No, don't get up," Ragna cut across her. "Those turnips 'ave to be stirred jus' so—you stay an' stir, I'll bring t'menfolk their luncheon."

Aravis sank back down on the stool and sullenly poked at the turnips that were pickling over the fire, resenting their dull grey color. It was quiet in the cottage without Ragna's persistent chatter, and soft snoring from the shady bed in the corner told her that the mother and new baby were napping.

Ragna came back in a swirl of sunshine and smiles. She was pinker than usual, and the silly little smile on her lips didn't dissipate as she added more turnips to the pot and took a face full of turnip-y steam.

"Why so happy?" Aravis said darkly after a while, finally unable to tolerate it any longer.

Ragna quirked an eyebrow at her, still wearing that insipid smile. "Y'know Cadoc, don't ye'?"

"Wh—oh, him. Yes."

"What's 'e like?"

The question startled Aravis slightly. Usually girls like this couldn't wait to tell her what 'secrets' they'd learned about him—never had they asked her what Cor was like as a person.

She cleared her throat and stirred the turnips. "He's a scoundrel, really. You wouldn't like him."

Ragna's face fell. "But—'e seems so sweet—"

"He's really not. He likes drinking and making small children cry."

"'ow do you know 'im?"

For the first time in her life, Aravis was tempted to lie and say that she was Cor's wife—who was there to challenge her at that moment? Ragna would cow, leave Cor alone, and let them get on in peace.

"We grew up together," she ended up saying bitterly.

"So you're not—"

"No."

Ragna brightened significantly. "_I_ think 'e's a real catch," she said triumphantly, swinging the cauldron off the fire and starting to ladle the turnips into the jars.

There was a sudden, stomach-churning noise in the back, and the baby started to wail. "What's that?" Ragna cried, trying to turn around.

Aravis, who had been facing the open door, stood up and said grimly, "Well, your _catch_ just vomited all over the doorstop."

She swept to the door as Ram, his tunic tied around his head to shield it from the sun, came stumbling in with Cor hanging off him, looking terrible indeed with skin the color of old porridge.

"He collapsed just a few minutes ago," Ram said breathlessly, helping Cor onto a stool. "Said he was dizzy and—" He broke off as Cor nearly fell from the stool again.

"'e looks well bad," Ragna squeaked.

Aravis went up to him and looked intently at his face. His eyes were half-open, and he didn't focus on her, even when she gripped his jaw in one hand and forced his lolling head to stay upright. "_Cor_," she said fiercely, shaking his head a little. "Look at me. Look at me—"

He was making an effort, she could tell, but his eyes soon rolled back in his head. She pulled one of his eyelids up and looked at the bright blue eye underneath; the pupil was widely dilated, but what did that signify, since they were in a dark room.

"Tell me exactly what happened," she shot at Ram, who was wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

"We were working—he said he was thirsty—we kept working. During lunch he didn't eat much, said he felt off, didn't want to drink much—then he went down like a sack of flour. We lifted him up, he vomited and wasn't breathing right, so I brought him back here—he vomited again—"

Aravis put a hand on Cor's forehead and cheek. He was breathing shallowly and burning up like he had a fever, but there was no sheen of sweat on his skin, so it couldn't be that. She ran a hand across his bare stomach, looking for a strange lump or sore under the skin, but nothing; he didn't even respond beyond a low groan when she pinched his arm to look for discharge.

Then it hit her. She felt stupid and dense for a moment—how many times had she seen this before? They called it Wrath of Tash sometimes, or Tashbaani Fever, for the burning summer heat struck down even the strongest and healthiest Calormenes.

"He has sunstroke," she said immediately. "Get him down—put him down on the ground—no, near the door, not the fire. Ragna, douse it."

"But the turni—"

"Douse the fire, Ragna!"

Ram laid Cor flat on his back on the ground near the open door, where a slight breeze was blowing. Aravis found a few tea towels and shoved them under Cor's head, ignoring his moaning.

"How do you know it's sunstroke?" Ram asked, setting Cor's feet on another stack of towels.

Aravis spared him a glance. "I'm Calormene, Ram. Remember? Sunstroke is a rite of passage for us. I know exactly what to do—leave him to me. Now fetch me water—lots of it. And as cold as you can get it. Ragna, have you any ice?"

The woman paused and looked shifty. "N…no…"

"Ragna, he will _die _if we do not cool him down. _Have you got any ice_?"

Ragna squeaked and scurried off.

The baby was still crying, but Aravis ignored it and bent over Cor. "Cor, can you hear me?" she said clearly and loudly, right over his nose. "Cor, it's Aravis. Try to open your eyes."

He turned his head weakly to the side and his eyelids fluttered, but there no sign of the bright blue.

"_Cor_. Stop being ridiculous. Open your eyes this instant!" She accompanied her words with a sharp pat on the jaw.

He did not respond, but it made no matter, for Ram had returned with buckets of water. "Douse his trousers," she said immediately. "No—better yet—take them off. We have to cool him down."

"Not my trousers," came a slurred voice.

Aravis looked down and saw a glimmer of blue as Cor wobbily shook his head back and forth. "Not…my trousers, no…"

"Don't be silly, Cor."  
"Aravis, no…I'll tell…Father…"

"You won't tell him anything if I let you die, so shut up. Ram, if you would—"

Ram draped a towel across Cor's stomach for modesty purposes and pulled the dirty trousers off from under it, then took a bucket of water and began pouring it all over him. Cor moaned.

"You have stupid skinny chicken legs, Cor," Aravis said to him. She took a cloth and, soaking it in the cool well water from one of the buckets, began patting down his chest and stomach, running the cloth under his chin and across the back of his neck for good measure.

Ragna came slowly back into the farmhouse with a small package held reverently out before her. "I got t'ice," she said solemnly. "Wha's left o'it, anyhow."

Aravis took it from her and, unwrapping it, ran it across Cor's hot forehead and then applied it quickly to his abdomen, where the heat had been cooking his gut. "Get him to drink, Ragna," she said.

Ragna filled a little jar with some of the water and knelt by Cor's head. "Drink this, Cadoc," she crooned, stroking his hair and brushing the jar against his jaw. Cor turned his head away.

"His name is Cor," Aravis reminded her darkly.

"Drink, Cor," Ragna obediently whispered. Cor wouldn't.

Pushing the ice into Ram's hands with an exasperated sigh, Aravis moved over and pulled the jar out of Ragna's hands. "Cor, if you don't drink, I'll have Ram remove the towel," she said, and shoved the jar against his lips. The water poured out and over his chin, and he sputtered, but then his throat began to bob, and he drank noisily.

Ragna looked hurt, but Aravis ignored her and went back to cooling Cor down with her combination of ice and wet towels. Eventually, he began shivering violently, and Aravis feared he was getting worse, but then the shivering subsided, some color began to come back in his cheeks, and then—her heart leapt—his eyelids fluttered and those bright blue eyes looked dead into hers.

"Feeling better?" she asked, smoothing a damp cloth across his forehead.

"A bit," he croaked. "Have a massive headache now, though."

"That's normal. Just relax."

"Can I have my pants back now?"

She had to smile a bit. "In a few minutes, when you can sit up. Then Ragna will find you somewhere cool and dark to lie down in so you can rest."

At the mention of Ragna, Cor turned his head. "Yes, Ragna—where is she?"

Ragna was there immediately, crooning something Aravis couldn't hear, so she got up abruptly and went about clearing the mess they'd made. Ram helped her, his big bare chest seeming to take up half the room. "You made some clear decisions, lass," he said after a moment of silence. "I'll admit, even I didn't know what to do."

"When one lives in a desert, one learns its sicknesses," she said automatically.

Ram looked at her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Just fine, thanks. I'll go hang these towels up to dry."

Aravis didn't go back inside again that day. After hanging up the towels, she found herself wandering back up to the pasture where the horses were grazing lazily; Inga trotted up to her when she slipped through the gate, nuzzling her pockets for treats. Aravis scratched her warm neck. She had the most velvety nose of any horse Aravis had ever ridden, and she loved running her palm across it, even though it made Inga snort. There was a strip of pink in the middle of her grey lip, and Aravis liked to think of it as her rebellious streak; she ran her finger down it and then found herself looking at Inga's fine grey face through a haze of tears. The creature whickered softly and nosed her shoulder, but nothing could stop the teardrops now; she was just glad no one was there to see her let them out.

When dinner came around, Lognar brought her a plate of baked squash and honeyed ham, but she chose to eat it in the pasture, saying she had a headache and needed the fresh air.

Night was starting to fall when the fence railing she was sitting on wobbled and warped, and she looked over to see Cor, wrapped in a blanket, making himself comfortable next to her. "You didn't come down for dinner," he said.

"You shouldn't be up and about yet."

"It's cooling off now. I feel much better."

Aravis was quiet for a while. "Ragna is sweet on you."

"I know. She's lovely, isn't she?"

"Mm."

They watched the horses for a minute or two, and Aravis was starting to feel the pressure of a question bubbling up inside her—a question she'd been wanting to ask for ages, it felt like—but before she could articulate it, there was a distant shout, and Cor turned around. "Ragna wants me," he said apologetically, and then he clambered down and was gone.

A few minutes later, the rail bobbled again, and Aravis found herself with the question fully formed and on the tip of her tongue, but when she turned, she saw Ram, not Cor, and the question died instantly.

"You're not all right," he said, gazing out at the pasture, a soft blue color now that the sun had set.

She didn't answer.

"In my line of work," Ram went on, "one learns quite a lot about people. All kinds of people. And you'd be surprised how alike they all are. Narnians are just like Calormenes who are just like Archenlanders. We're all one and the same, we are. The same problems, the same vices, the same grief…it shows up in everyone. I've learned to read it. I've learned to see people, Aravis—see people the way they can't see themselves. Can't or won't."

"What is your line of work?" she asked.

He smiled and shook his great ginger head. "You, lass, are very clever. But you hide behind that. Don't think people don't notice—when you are insecure or scared, you get brilliant. Or arrogant. I see that. I understand that, too. And what I see right now…I see a very frightened little girl. How old are you?"

"I'll be nineteen in October," she said softly.

"See? Hardly a woman grown. No age to have lived what you've lived. I can see it in your face, you know—you carry all of it in your eyes. They get hard and flinty sometimes, Aravis, and you look like an old, tired woman. It's how you look now—how you've looked for weeks. What is it that you're carrying around, Aravis, that makes you feel so old?"

She shrugged halfheartedly.

"No, you know what it is. In fact, I can see it—I can read it in your face. Something about the prince hurts you, doesn't it? No, don't shake your head. I've never see you more brilliant than when you have been with Cor lately—like a diamond, glittering and beautiful but old. Old and worn-out."

"I just—"

Ram waited.

"I just…I wish…" Aravis stared intently at the horses in the fading light. "He forgets me. All the time. Until I fix something—then it's like it was when we were children—so close it's like we share a soul. But then a pretty face comes along—someone new and exciting—and then I'm just Aravis again."

He nodded sagely. "His Highness has fallen into the trap that so many young men fall into."

"And he never learns his lesson," she added bitterly, running her fingers across the line of scarring that had formed on the back of her head.

"When do they?" Ram echoed.

"I don't know what to do. He's doing his duty, verbatim—find a wife. I'm doing my duty, verbatim—help him. But I hate every second of it."

"He's going to be king," Ram replied. Aravis looked at him dryly. "He is going to have to get used to taking wise counsel. Speak to him in a way he'll listen, Aravis. If anyone could do it, you could."

"He won't listen," she said quietly. "We'll row again."

"If another row is what it takes for him to realize he's not the only person in your friendship…"

She had to smile a bit, and Ram heaved a sigh and got down from the fence. "Romith has the first watch," he said to her as he stretched. "You're not on rotation tonight, so get some good rest."

"I will, Ram. Thank you."

"Goodnight, Aravis."

He went back down the hill, and Aravis turned to the pasture. The moon was coming out, and the soft light gently illuminated the horses as they dozed with their heads bobbing, and Aravis breathed deeply of the cool air. Only eight more months to go.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

_Chapter Thirty-Eight_

The next day, Cor "took it easy" and traded places with Aravis. It was not her idea, not in the least—Nim suggested it, and Cor eagerly agreed. Aravis would return to the fields, and he would help Ragna continue to preserve in the small farmhouse. If it had been up to Aravis, she would have slapped Cor upside the face and made him see sense, but he was the prince and she was just Aravis, so she had to let it slide.

As it was, Cor made various appearances throughout the day with Ragna at his side, looking for all the world like the cat that'd gotten into the cream. Ragna was obviously and utterly besotted with him, and she hung on his arm like she didn't have any legs of her own. If Aravis didn't know better, the angry nausea she felt would have made her think she had sunstroke.

The real kicker was when they came with water jugs halfway through the afternoon, and the queue was formed so that Aravis was at the back. She got distracted, turned away, and when she turned back, Cor and Ragna had already started back towards the farmhouse. Aravis couldn't bring herself to call out to them.

Cor felt rested enough the day after to return to the fields, and Aravis went back into the farmhouse with Ragna with a sense of trepidation that had no real cause and a feeling not unlike a kettle about to boil.

"'E is such a fine lookin' lad, innee," Ragna tittered, dumping a load of cucumbers into Aravis's arms. "'At gorgeous hair—like spun gold, 'tis—an' 'is eyes—blimey, I swear m'knees go t'jelly when 'e looks a' me…"

They're heart wrenching when they're sad, Aravis wanted to tell her. Nothing made her feel more awful than when Cor was sad—he was rarely sad, it wasn't his personality, so when he was, it showed, and it always threatened to break her heart. Had Ragna ever seen him sad? Hardly. She saw him at his near best, his chivalrous, blustering, impressive façade.

"'And 'is arms, so long an' lean—like a young 'orse, 'e is!"

Aravis wanted to tell her he'd gotten that build from being a slave all his life. But she didn't. She kept her mouth shut, much as it killed her to do so, and tried to smile convincingly. "Has he told you why his name is really Cor?" she asked sweetly.

Ragna looked confused. "Why would anyone tell anyone 'at? My name is Ragna 'cause it's Ragna, 's all."

"Never mind," Aravis sighed. If Cor wanted to marry this girl, he would have a lot of explaining to do first, and she had no intention of making it easier for him.

They brought water out to the workers mid-morning. It was a bit cooler that day, a bit of autumn in the air, and there were clouds in the sky, so they weren't as thirsty as usual, so Ragna didn't have much time to stand around and titter with Cor before Aravis was reminding her sharply of the peach preserves that were bubbling on the fire.

Luncheon, however, was another matter. This time, Aravis was enlisted to help, and she and Ragna brought pails of cold meat sandwiches up to the men, who were resting under the tree by the cart path.

"We're getting quite a bit o' work done today, lads," Lognar was saying when Aravis handed him one of the pails. "A' this rate, we'll be done afore the month turns."

There was a murmur of approval, and Aravis settled down next to Nim to nibble on her own lunch. "The preservin's goin' good, too," said Ragna from where she perched next to Cor, her hand on his shoulder. "We star'ed out rough-like, eh, Finuala? But she's a righ' fast learner."

Aravis gave a terse smile. Imagine, _Ragna_ insinuating that she was slow! It was almost unbearable.

The conversation drifted on, and soon Aravis stood and gathered up the pails and soiled napkins from the men as they stood up and drifted back towards the field. "Ragna, the plums will be ready," she said, bending over to pick up a napkin and marching down to the cart path. "Ragna—"

She had just turned to call the girl again when she saw why she wasn't answering. Her mouth was otherwise occupied, Aravis thought dimly, watching Ragna kiss Cor lingeringly on the lips. Aravis's own mouth went dry, and she turned back abruptly, one of the buckets slipping from her sweaty hands and clattering to the ground.

"Aravis—"

It was Cor's voice. The sound of it accompanied a violent rush of anger, and Aravis gripped the pails hard and kept walking.

"Aravis, please, wait—"

She heard him skid down onto the path and run after her.

"Where are you going? Please don't be angry—"

"Why would I be angry?" Aravis forced out with a little laugh. "What you do with strange girls you hardly know is none of my business."

"It wasn't like that, really, Aravis."

"Oh? Pardon me. You just fell lips-first onto her face. You said you had learned your lesson, Cor. Think with your head, not with your—" She broke off abruptly.

Cor stopped for a moment, then hurried to catch up. "Really, Aravis, she kissed _me,_ not the other way 'round."

"I don't care either way," she repeated.

"Aravis—" He reached out and took hold of her wrist.

Before she knew what was happening, Aravis had dropped all her pails and her other fist snapped out, colliding full on with Cor's nose. He staggered back, his hand covering the lower part of his face. Her knuckles throbbed.

Cor sniffed hard and brought his hand away; there was a thin stream of blood trickling down his lip, which he wiped gingerly away with the back of his hand. "Well. I probably deserved that."

"I'm sorry," Aravis said stiffly, horror rising up inside her. "I shouldn't have done it."

He shook his head with a grimace. "Corin taught you well."

"I'll get you something to staunch it with," she forced out, and turned to go.

Cor caught her wrist again, flinching a bit as she turned to look at him. "Aravis, please. You have to believe me. She kissed me, not—"

Aravis wrenched free, the anger that had been repressed by remorse rising to the surface again. "I do not care!" she exclaimed. "Do what you want, Cor! You always do! You brought me along to help you—to give you advice—and what do you do but ignore it? I've finished!"

"Finished—what do you m—"

"_Choose!_"

The word exploded out of Aravis so violently that it even took her aback. Cor stared, the blood smeared on his upper lip, but it was like lancing a wound; she couldn't stop now that she'd begun. "Choose, Cor, you have to choose!"

"Aravis—I don't—choose what?"

"_Them_—" Aravis pointed wildly at Ragna, who was standing behind a tree looking frightened, "or _me_. Your harem, Cor, or your friend. What is it going to be?"

He stammered out an incoherent response, and Aravis dropped her hand by her side. "Think about it, Cor. You said you brought me along on this journey to give you advice and support, that you wouldn't go without me. But now—Cor—do you even know that I'm here?"

"Of course I d—"

"That was rhetorical! You've been an ass, Cor, since the day you met Gyneth. I don't know what the hell she did to you, but the second you clapped eyes on that wench, you forgot I ever meant anything. We used to be best friends! We did everything together! But now—it's—you put women you have never met before ahead of me."

Cor swiped automatically at his nose, smearing the blood even more, but he said nothing. This only made Aravis angrier.

"Are you listening to me?" she cried, her voice growing louder with impatience. A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered caution, but she smashed it down. "The only time you give me the respect I deserve—pay me any attention at all—is when I get injured or when I do something you don't like—"

"Oh, Aravis, that isn't tr—"

"_Darrin_."

Cor turned a funny pink color and shut his mouth.

"But otherwise it's always about your women! You have to choose, Cor! Or you'll keep bouncing between me and the pretty faces you find on the streets. When will it end, Cor?"

At least he had the decency to look abashed, Aravis thought vaguely before blazing on.

"You can't treat them—me—us like that. One of us has to be first, and you _know_ it. I don't want much—I just want you to treat me _decently_ again—and not jump around like I bore you. I can't take it anymore."

_Damn it, here come the tears again…_

Cor reached out for her hand, but she slapped it away and, leaving the pails in the dust, stumbled back towards the farmhouse.

Her vision was clouded with tears and dust, but she made it back eventually. The plums on the fire had begun to burn, and she dumped them out savagely in the pigpen, where the huge brown sows tore the purple mass to pieces. It had been a relief to get it off her chest, she thought as she watched the disgusting animals nose around in the muck, the dark plums making them look like they were covered in blood. All the same, she wished she could have planned out what she was going to say—honed her words until they bit and gored like swords.

Ragna did not come back to the farmhouse for a long time. Aravis took it upon herself to pickle some peppers she found hanging in the cellar, and she amused herself between stirs by envisioning the many possible ways Ragna could prove her right. Poison? Too sophisticated for her. But she was perfectly capable of giving Cor a good solid thump on the back of the head when he wasn't looking.

When Ragna did appear finally, she came meekly in through the door, nearly tiptoeing. Aravis scarcely glanced at her. "Peppers are nearly done," she said tonelessly.

Ragna sprinkled some salt into the cauldron and then timidly sat beside the hearth. A long silence reigned.

At last: "I…I though' you said you 'n he was chil'hood friends."

Aravis gave a wry little laugh. "We were."

"But you said…"

It was that kind of day. "Listen here, you," Aravis said through clenched teeth, leaning towards Ragna through the smoke and steam of the cooking process. "Cor and I have a very unique friendship. He has saved my life countless times, and I his—if you think for one moment that you are in some sort of _competition_ with me—think again, Ragna. He and I may have our differences but he is still my friend and I swear by the Great Lion that if you or anyone you know tries to lay a finger on him, I will kill you myself. Understand?"

Ragna nodded, terrified.

"Good. Now pay attention. Cor will ask you to marry him and go with him to the capital city. You will say yes. And then you will join the two other women who he asked the same question. You are not his favorite, Ragna, you are just one of several contenders."

Ragna nodded again, biting her lip. "I won'—I won' hurt him, Finuala, I promise—you 'ave my word—'e's a good man, I can tell—an' 'e does respec' you, mum, if it means anythin' comin' from m'mouth, like—"

Aravis reached out a hand, and Ragna stopped talking with a tiny squeak, as though afraid Aravis would hit her, too. But she merely took up the spoon and stirred the peppers carefully. Heartened, Ragna sat up and tried to catch her eye.

"'E—'e talks about you all t'time—'e told me 'ow you like to race 'orses together an' 'ow clever you are 'n 'ow you like stories 'n you read to 'im sometimes—so don't—don't think I'm tryin' t'steal 'at part o' him away fro' you—I sure amn't—a lass knows not t'break another lass's heart."

Aravis looked over at her through the smoke and steam. Ragna smiled a little.

Late that night, something stirred Aravis out of a deep but restless sleep. Her brain, fogged with exhaustion, couldn't comprehend it at first, but as she quickly came to consciousness, she realized that a frigid drizzle was falling on her face, turned toward the sky as it was. She fumbled at her blankets, attempting to pull them up over her again and regain some of her lost comfort, but they were thin and damp already.

Then, soft warmth settled over her, and she looked up to see Cor, swathed in his winter cloak, draping another blanket over her head and shoulders. He wrapped it tightly around her and tucked the hem of it under her chin. "Autumn is here," he said by way of explanation.

Aravis put her nose into a fold and breathed into it, her breath fogging in the cold night air. "Indeed."

His hand was still on her shoulder. "Aravis," he said softly. She almost didn't want to hear what he was going to go on and say. "You know as well as I do that you're always going to be first with me. I just haven't been very good at showing it."

"Understatement," Aravis muttered.

Cor wasn't fazed. "True. But I'll try harder, I promise. You're right. I've known you forever, and these other women barely a few months."

"At most."

He slipped his cloak around her with one arm. "I'll always be your Shasta, you know."

"At least until you're married."

"No, even after that, I promise. _Always_. And if I forget, you now have my full permission to do something very painful to me to help me remember."

Aravis had to smile a bit, and Cor squeezed her. "So, Aravis, could this please be our last big row? I hate making you so upset."

"As long as you promise we can still bicker."

"How would we communicate without bickering? Of course we can still bicker."

Aravis laughed, then blushed and covered her mouth as Ram snorted and rolled over, and Cor muffled her face with his cloak. A moment or two passed, but Ram did not wake up, and she peeked up at Cor over his cloak.

"That was close," he whispered.

She smiled and slipped her arms around his torso. It was leaner than she remembered, but firmer, and he folded her up in the cozy warmth of his arms and cloak. "No more rowing," she sighed.

"No more," he agreed softly, and pressed his face into her hair.

They stayed like this for a very long time; Aravis hovered somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness, warm and more comfortable than she had felt in weeks. A few hours before dawn, Ram shook Cor's shoulder and took over the watch, and Cor curled up on his bedroll with his back against Aravis's, and she fell asleep trying to hold back a smile.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

_Chapter Thirty-Nine_

The last days of preserving were easier on Aravis and Ragna than the previous days had been. Aravis couldn't put her finger on it, but their polite conversations came a bit easier and the long silences weren't as awkward. The work went faster on the final afternoon, and Aravis was pleasantly surprised to find that, before long, it was dinner and the men were trickling back to the farmhouse for food. It was significantly cooler that day, a real bite of late September in the air, and there were dark clouds rolling over the hills and hiding the sun.

They heard the first rolls of thunder while passing around bowls of thick stew. Lognar glanced at the ceiling, chewing noisily on a thick roll of sweet bread, and said around his mouthful, "'S good we're more'n half done wi' the 'arvest—t'rain'll rot the grain on t'stalks if'n we don't hurry."

"Finuala 'n I can 'elp tomorrow," Ragna said matter-of-factly. "We finished t'last o' t'preservin' t'day."

"Would be good," Lognar grunted.

The thunder shook the small house, and Aravis's stew quivered in her bowl.

"T'thunder sounds close," said Ragna nervously.

"I'm quite sure there's nothing to be afraid of," Cor said. "In the North, we have the most horrendous storms come from over the mountains."

Lognar eyed him over a goblet of mead. "No, p'rhaps not. But we got t'ocean storms."

His words were accompanied by a loud blast of sound. Ragna gripped the table.

"Is there lightning, do you think?" said Nim, craning his neck to look out the open door.

Lognar stopped chewing for a moment, then got up and strode to the door. He stood on the threshold.

"What is it, Lognar?" Ragna asked, a note of fear in her voice.

He turned suddenly. "Fire."

"What?"

"_Fire_!" he roared.

Everyone leapt up and jammed through the doorway; sure enough, far off in the distant fields, thick black smoke was rising into the gloomy sky.

"A lightnin' strike, no doubt," Lognar muttered. "Y'have horses, aye?"

"Yes," said Cor.

"Righ'. Get on 'em—get buckets—Ragna, get us the spades—we 'ave to make a fire barrier—"

The men scattered. As Aravis hurried to the pasture to call Inga, there came another roll of thunder, but this one was sharp and quick, and it shook the ground so hard she nearly lost her balance. Inside the farmhouse, the baby screamed. Inga and the other horses were in distress in the high pasture, too, their ears back and eyes rolling, and only Inga came at their calls and whistles.

"There, there, girl," Aravis murmured, catching the Inga's halter and slipping the bit and reins into place as the creature snorted and pranced around her, craning her neck back in the direction of the smoke. "You're all right. You're just fine."

Inga whinnied loudly as Aravis put one foot on the fence rail and slipped onto her bareback; the other horses, crammed together in the middle of the pasture, flicked their ears and snorted. Aravis couldn't help but think Inga had spoken to them in her horsey way, for when Cor went near Raider with his own bridle and blanket, the big destrier bugled and reared a bit but finally let him approach.

"Good lass," she whispered, rubbing Inga's neck. "Now ride—"

Riding bareback again took some getting used to. Inga was jumpy and difficult to control, and her coat smooth against the fabric of Aravis's trousers; half the time, she clung to the reins to keep from falling off and let Inga navigate the rocky and slippery cart path. Before long, though, they had reached the field.

A smoky orange fire blazed hotly along a field of drying hay. Aravis's first reaction was relief that it wasn't a food crop, but the flames were advancing hungrily toward a field of beautiful red-gold barley, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the flames were licking towards the plain little farmhouse.

"We've no hope of dousing it," came Cor's voice, shouting as he was over the crackle and roar of flame. Raider was arching its fine neck in terror, but held its ground.

"No, not in the least," she agreed. "But we have to protect that barley."

"But where is the fire coming from? We might be able to stop it from growing." As he spoke, Cor dismounted and tied Raider's reins to a branch on a tree on the other side of the road.

"Cor, you can't go over there—it's dangerous—"

"Oh, come, Aravis, since when has that ever stopped you? Come on!"

Feeling a deep sense of misgiving, she slid from Inga, who whinnied loudly, and tied her to the same branch. "It is very acrid," she said as she hurried to catch up with Cor. The smoke stung her eyes, and she held her sleeve over her mouth.

"Indeed—you wouldn't think hay would smoke this badly—"

They edged along the rough boundaries of the hay field. It was slow going, for the land was strewn with stones and stumps that had been uprooted from the soil, and there was thick grass and even several trees to hinder their passage. Cor stumbled over one and pitched forward, landing hard on his hands.

"I told you this was dangerous," Aravis said, helping him up and glancing at his palms for traces of blood.

"I still don't see any sign of a lightning strike," Cor answered. He rubbed his palms on his trousers. "That's strange. You think you'd—"

There was a loud blast of thunder. The concussion made the ground shake, and it was Aravis's turn to lose her balance; Cor helped her up and brushed the dirt from her skirt while simultaneously craning his neck for signs of lightning. "That was the loudest thunder I've ever heard," he said.

"It sounds so close up here," Aravis replied.

They went on, a bit more cautiously than before, for the nearby fire was growing angry. Aravis shaded her eyes from the smoke as she scanned the field for the remnants of anything that could have been struck by lightning. There was nothing but a wilted-looking scrub tree a few hundred feet into the field, and it was as un-blasted as could be; as she gazed at it, though, she saw something strange. "Cor," she called, tugging at his hand, "do you see that there?"

He looked where she was pointing. "The scrub-tree?"

"Yes—that thing hanging from the branch."

"Oh, I see i—"

_BOOM_.

Aravis's head felt like it was filled with cotton. Her ears rang and her tongue was hot, and her legs seemed a mile away, but there were shaking hands under her arms, around her waist, dragging her, and a persistent voice in her ear that she gradually realized was Cor's. She blinked and felt a slow, sinister burning sensation across her cheeks.

"Aravis—_Aravis_ _we have to go_—damn it the horses have gone—"

She looked around. They were stumbling along the other side of the road—how they got there she didn't know—and Cor was beside her, streaked with dirt and wearing a grim, grey look on his face. "Are you all right?" she gasped.

"Yes—you were standing in front of me so you got the brunt of it."

"Am _I_ all right?"

He looked at her with a wry smile that instantly eased the pain in her face and hands. "Yes. You landed on me."

She wanted to laugh, but it didn't seem right. "What—what _was_ that? Who would put something like that _here_?"

"I don't know," he replied grimly, "but I have a pretty fair idea."

_Finnii_.

"We need to tell Ram," she said, speeding up her pace. "Right away."

Over the distant roar of the fire, they heard the sound of hooves. "Go back!" Cor bellowed when he caught sight of Nim and Ram and the others. "Go back—not safe!"

Nim halted immediately, but Ram urged his horse on and met them a moment later. "Sire—milady—we found your horses—_what happened to you?_—"

"There are Finnii here," Aravis broke in breathlessly. "We're sure of it. It's not thunder and lightning causing the fire—it's incendiary devices."

Ram turned the color of porridge beneath his red beard, but he nodded briskly. "I'll tell the others. Shall we make preparations to leave, sire?"

"Not yet—we need to help Lognar keep the fire from spreading—though if there are more of those bloody bastards I don't know if I see the point."

"Yes, sire."

"And Ram—"

"Yes?"

"Take Aravis back to the farmhouse, please, right away. You can see she's hurt."

"I'm not hurt," she protested, but Ram nodded succinctly and reached out a hand. "Cor!"

Cor looked miserable. "Aravis, I'm sorry—but you're _bleeding_—"

She reached a hand up to her forehead and her fingers came away crimson; before she could react, Ram had grabbed her under the elbows and lifted her bodily onto his horse.

"We'll probably be all right without you," Cor called as Ram turned back towards the farmhouse. "But I'm not positive, so get patched up quick…!"

She said nothing as Ram hurried her back to the farm. As soon as they had reached the barnyard, he set her down, made sure she was lucid, and wheeled off again in the direction of the smoke. Aravis walked unsteadily across the yard; Inga whickered at her from beside the barn, where she and Raider were taking turns nibbling at some straw and flicking the flies from their coats. "Silly things," Aravis murmured, glad to see them safe.

"Egad—_Finuala_! Your face!"

Ragna had come out of the farmhouse with buckets of water, which had she promptly dropped upon seeing Aravis's injuries. "What _'appened_? Come 'ere! No, don't walk so fast, you'll fall and break your 'ead—well, do walk a bit faster—"

Aravis made it across the yard in one piece, and Ragna helped her inside. The baby was still crying. "What do you know about Finnii?" she asked impulsively.

Ragna frowned as she sat Aravis down on a stool. "Never 'eard of 'im."

"Them."

"'Em. Wha'ever they are."

"They're a rebel group," Aravis sighed. Ragna came at her face with a damp towel. "Meaning to overthr—_bugger! Ouch!_"

"A bit o' liquor al'ays cleans cuts up right nice," Ragna answered blithely.

Aravis's face burned like it was on fire. "Bloody _hell_!"

"Watch you' mouth, miss," she said with a frown, pouring more clear spirits on a fresh corner of the tower and dabbing the particularly painful spot above Aravis's right eye. "It's no' nearly so bad lookin' when you clean t'blood 'n dirt off, like."

Aravis swallowed a few choice words and dug her nails into her thighs.

"Righ'. You was sayin'?"

"The Finnii—are a group of radicals—" Aravis forced out through clenched teeth as Ragna patted a bit of herb paste into the most painful places on her brow and cheekbone. "They want to—overthrow the king—"

"Good King Lune?" Ragna looked shocked. "But 'e's al'ays been so kind to us—except for 'em taxes, y'know, but Lognar say it's not 'im, it's t'city men, y'know. Is 'at why the Feenay are tryin' to get 'im over?"

"Not quite," Aravis answered. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

Ragna blinked at her.

"There's a man who thinks he has the right to the throne, not the princes Cor and Corin."

Ragna blinked a bit faster. "Corin an'…"

"Cor."

"Tha's a funny happenchance," Ragna said credulously.

"Right," Aravis said slowly. "Anyway, that's who these people are. They're rather dangerous. They're the ones who set your field on fire, we think."

"They set it afire?" Ragna yelped, turning ashen. "Lognar—Lognar said it were ligh'ning—"

"Yes, well, you'd better not tell him otherwise," Aravis answered. "It was explosives. That's how Cor and I got—"

"Is 'e safe?"

"What?"

"Is Cor safe?"

Aravis paused for a moment. There was a glimmer of pure terror in Ragna's eyes, and she gripped the hand that she had been bandaging with an iron clasp. "He's quite all right," she said softly.

Ragna relaxed with a sigh and her eyes looked strangely bright. It occurred to Aravis at that moment, one she would not forget for a very long time, that for all Ragna's silly, dim-witted and girlish actions, she might very well have genuine feelings for Cor. The thought was deeply disturbing for some reason.

"You're all cleaned up, Finuala," Ragna said brightly, patting Aravis's bandaged hand. "As well as you're goin' to be, anyhow."

Aravis looked down at the neat, clean job the girl had done of her hand. "Thank you," she said begrudgingly. "And I suppose you ought to start calling me Aravis."

"Why? Isn' your name Finuala?"

"No. It's Aravis."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You look more like a Finuala t'me."

"…My name is Aravis."

Ragna nodded slowly. "Righ'. Air-a-viss."

"Close enough."

* * *

The men came back hours later, sooty and dirty and soaked with sweat. The fire had been contained, they said, at the loss of an entire field's worth of feed hay. Lognar said grimly that it would cost his farm dearly, but it was better than having lost the barley as well. Aravis wondered if they had told him about the Finnii, but the way in which Ram and Cor kept trading subtle glances made her think not.

Cor decided over a light dinner that it was time to move on. Lognar argued only briefly before ceding that it was safest if the companions went on their way, and agreed to give them everything they had agreed on, since they had stayed almost until the end of the harvest. It was nearly October. As for Ragna, she picked absently at her pheasant, head low over the table, and Aravis fancied she saw a tear drop onto her plate. Cor paid no notice.

"Have you asked her yet?" she said to him as they scrubbed the pots out in the well trough after dinner.

"Asked who what?" Cor answered.

"You know who. Ragna's heartbroken that we're leaving—that _you're_ leaving."

"I think she'll be all right. I only knew her for a fortnight, after all."

"No, see, I don't think you understand. She's quite fond of you."

He stopped scrubbing and sat back on his heels. "Aravis, what are you trying to say?"

Aravis focused intently on a speck of baked-on food, picking at it with her nail. "You need to ask her to come with us."

"As a companion?"

"Don't act stupid, Cor, it doesn't suit you. As your potential _queen_."

He was quiet for a moment. "Aravis, you said yourself you wanted me to choose between potential brides and you. I chose you, didn't I?"

"That's not what I meant," she retorted, flushing. "You can't go back to Anvard with only two girls. Your father wants four or five, at least."

"But you said to stop thinking with my—"

"I know. But now you're letting me fill my role. I'm making a recommendation, and I suggest you take it. See? A much better arrangement."

"Why? I thought you hated her!"

"Never," she said archly. "Besides. I couldn't let you leave without you knowing. The poor girl's falling in love with you, Cor."

Only then did she chance a look at him. He was gazing at her with a boyish blush on his freckled cheeks, visible even with the soot on his face, and he said, "How do you know?"

"It was only a matter of time," she answered, looking back down at the pot she held. "Women notice these things in other women. So ask her, Cor."

"I don't know…"

"Please."

"All right. But I'm going to have to be very upfront with her, you know. I'm not in love with her."

"At least tell who you are first. She might change her mind about you. Goodness knows I would have if it hadn't been too late when I found out."

Cor flicked her with the end of his rag. "Is this how it's going to be, then? You decide who I should and should not think about wedding?"

"Yes. And if I had my way, I would decide what you should and should not say."

He laughed. "You best be careful, woman—at this rate, I will not let you go when we get back to Anvard."

"That sounds horrid. Are you going to lock me up in a tower like an evil stepmother?"

"If you make me."

"What do you think the Privy Council will make of a woman advisor?"

"I will listen to their opinions and then ignore them. That's what kings do."

"And what about your father?"

"Exiled."

"And Corin?"

"Also exiled."

"Is that what you're going to do with all your political opponents?"

"Exile all of them! You, to Telmar. You, to Galma. And you—I particularly dislike you, so it's off to Calavar you go!"

She pushed him over. It was not hard to do, after all; he was laughing so hard at the look on her face that he bobbed right over like a boiled egg, and even rolled a little bit like one too, still giggling helplessly.

"Wha's all this, then?"

Cor's laughter was cut short. Ragna was coming timidly out into the yard, looking sad and wan, and Aravis hastily dumped the rest of the water out of the pots she had been washing and stood up.

"Just a funny story," she said. "I'll go put these away." And she hurried into the farmhouse.


	40. Chapter Forty

_Chapter Forty_

They left the next morning before the sun had risen. It had been a restless night for all of them; Lognar insisted that they sleep in the stuffy, smoky farmhouse, and Cor posted a guard by each door. Still, Aravis slept only briefly, and in spurts, and each small sound made her jerk awake, afraid that a wailing band of Finnii was descending upon them. When it was time to go, she did so quickly, eager to put the farm behind her. They had their winter clothes, plenty of food and water to get them to the next city, and two months until they could turn their horses toward Castle Zohra for the winter.

Ragna was not so willing to leave. She had accepted Cor's proposal, and Aravis had entered her into the book, but when the time came to mount her scruffy hackney, the poor girl burst into tears and clung to her brother's neck, kissing him soundly about the face and wailing her goodbyes. No one moved to separate them; it had come out when Aravis was entering Ragna's information that the girl was only sixteen years old, give or take. Well of an age to marry, of course, but Aravis herself was already turning nineteen in a few weeks' time, and Cor was only months away from twenty.

Eventually, though, Ragna swallowed her tears and got up on her hackney. As they set off into the gloom of the early morning, Lognar waved, and Aravis settled into the saddle.

Corin, Hana, Janey, Darrin, and Rhys met them at the crossroads. The sun was peeking above the eastern hills by then, and Aravis could make out their shadowy faces; Corin urged his mount forward and met her and Cor.

"I got your message," he said somewhat groggily. "What's the hurry?"

"Finnii," Cor answered in a low voice.

Shock, then resignation appeared on Corin's face. "Ah. And you've got…"

"Bear and buckskin, enough for all of us. And enough grain to get us a long way. You?"

"The farmer wasn't too happy with us leaving so early. Still, we got leather and furs for boots and gloves, and quite a bit of salted meat."

"Excellent. Good work."

"And who's this?" Corin asked, peering over Aravis's shoulder.

Cor turned to look. "Ah. Corin, this is Ragna. Ragna, this is my brother, the prince—"

"Corin, I know," Ragna said breathlessly. "I am honored, Your Highness."

Corin looked surprised. "'Your Highness'—haven't heard that one in a while!"

"When you start acting like a prince, we'll start referring to you as one," Hana said dryly from behind him.

Aravis laughed.

"Was he misbehaving, Hana?" Cor asked.

"Corin seemed to think that because he was working as a fieldhand, he could act like a fieldhand," Janey answered. "Ragna, dear, you will come to realize that these illustrious fellows are anything but."

"Speak for yourself," Cor said indignantly.

"How can they not be illustrious?" Ragna asked, wide-eyed. "They are gentlemen, surely!"

Aravis and Janey started laughing.

"I'm Hana," Hana said kindly to Ragna, who looked bemused by the others' teary laughter. "Are you quite excited for the next few months?"

"I think," Ragna said timidly.

"Well, you'll have to be," Janey answered, wiping her eyes, "or you'll have a beast of a time. Come now, shouldn't we get on?"

"Yes," Cor said, cutting across a rather smart-mouthed comment Corin was in the middle of making. "Let's. I want to get as far from here today as we can. Keep your weapons loose, everyone. We don't want any surprises."

"D'you have a lot of surprises?" Ragna asked Aravis in a very high-pitched voice.

"Afraid so," Aravis answered.

Janey and Hana took spots in the rear as the corps moved off. Letting Ragna ride ahead with Cor, Aravis dropped back to join them, and she had scarcely given them a proper greeting when the questions started flying.

"Eee, is she pretty!"

"I can see why Cor picked her."

"What's she like? Nitwit, I think I presume correctly."

"Her hair is lovely."

"Looks a bit young, though, eh?"

"What do you think of her?"

The last question threw Aravis off-guard, and she had a sneaking suspicion that Hana had meant it to. "Er—she's very pretty," she answered.

"That much is obvious," Janey snorted. "Answer Hana's question. We can see you've got an opinion."

Aravis looked at them, both young women with open, honest, somewhat plain faces gazing back at her. Oh, how she had _missed_ them! "I hated her at first," she admitted softly.

"I can see why," Janey said matter-of-factly. "She's latched onto Cor like a leech on a fat belly, that anyone can tell."

"Why would that upset me?" Aravis asked, feeling her face growing hot.

Janey shrugged. "I don't know, but I can tell it does. 'S why you like me and Hana. Am I right, Hana, that we could go either way? Marrying Cor or not."

Hana nodded. "Janey's right. Ragna's…different."

"She really fancies him," Aravis answered with a sigh. "She didn't care who he was. Rather like Gyneth…"

"No," Hana said thoughtfully, "not like Gyneth, I think. One could always sense a certain malice about Gyneth. Ragna doesn't have that at all."

"Because she's about as clever as a gourd," Janey snorted.

"Oh, that's not fair," Hana protested.

"She means well," Aravis amended begrudgingly. "But she's…she's not terribly clever."

"Well, neither am I. Different people have different strengths, you know."

"You only think you're not clever because you haven't been taught otherwise," Janey answered, patting her hand. "I think, given a few books, you could be cracking smart."

Hana smiled. "Thank you, Janey. But really, Aravis, what do you think of her _now_?"

"It's hard to say," Aravis answered truthfully. "I really hated her at first, but now…she's not clever enough to be manipulative and cold like Gyneth, I think. And she really fancies Cor. I shouldn't dislike that."

Janey sniffed dismissively. "She'll never last. Mark my words."

"You shouldn't jinx it like that," Hana said reproachfully.

"It's done now!"

Aravis listened only partially to their squabbling; she was watching Cor and Ragna, chatting lightheartedly, and she had a sudden urge to do something dramatic, like fall off Inga or seize Hana's bow and arrows and shoot a spying Finni out of the trees above them. Inga was plodding along too steadily for Aravis to slip off, though, and the trees were nearly bare of leaves and most certainly bare of lurking Finnii. So she had to content herself with being plain old Aravis.

* * *

It occurred to Aravis at various points over the next few weeks that she really ought to feel sorry for Cor. Even though there was a small part of her that would not stop twinging painfully whenever Cor rode alongside of or had a solitary conversation with Hana or Janey or Ragna, she understood that Cor was trying his hardest to spread himself fairly among twelve very different individuals; and, to be fair, he tried even harder to make extra time for her, so she kept her mouth shut. Still, it seemed a rare treat when Raider pulled up alongside her and Inga, or when Cor called her over specifically, or the one time he reached over and squeezed her impulsively.

"What was that for?" she asked in surprise, rooted to the spot.

"For being so patient with me." Cor looked boyishly sheepish.

She forced herself to continue filling her flask from the ice-cold creek they were kneeling by. "I'm not being patient with anyone. What would I need to be patient about?"

Cor shrugged. "I dunno. Just…sometimes I miss not being back in Anvard, when we could go riding or hunting or just stay indoors and read or play ball in the corridors like we used to. It's been me bouncing between duties and you just having to watch."

"I suppose we must get used to that."

He frowned. "Don't talk like that, Aravis. I hate thinking about it."

Aravis sighed and held her hand out for another flask, which he handed to her. "Well, you haven't taken me hunting yet since we left, you know. We could still do that."

He nodded. "I guess."

"And I haven't yet read all the way through that monstrous volume you made me. It's been weighing my pack down all this time."

"You should read to me. We could use an escape from reality, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose I could do that."

"Tonight?"

"Oh, all right."

And so that night, when the stars were twinkling brightly overhead (Beomia the Warrioress was nowhere to be seen) and Rhys, Borran, and Nim had already gone to bed, Cor stretched out next to Aravis as she settled down next to the cozy fire with the heavy package in her lap.

"Wha's that?" Ragna asked as Aravis gently unwrapped the hide covering from the book.

"It's a book of fairytales Cor gave me a long time ago," Aravis answered softly, spreading the hide over her lap so her dirty skirts wouldn't mar the pristine leather cover. It really was beautiful in the firelight, she thought, running her callused fingers over the smooth pages. She opened to "The Boy Who Wanted More Cheese," a whimsical tale that cautioned children not to listen to fairies or eat too much before bed. The illustration that accompanied it was simple but charming; Cor had painted the boy with fair hair and freckles reaching out for a round of red cheese from a beautiful fairy with tumbling dark hair and dusky skin. She brushed her finger over the painting, feeling the smoothness of the paper and the tiny raised ridges of the paint and ink. The words danced across the page. It was lovely, she realized through a sudden fog of tears.

"Aravis, are you all right?"

The words were accompanied by a gentle touch at her lower back, and she jumped, blinking the tears back to find everyone looking at her with furrowed brows and Cor sitting up with his hand still on her back. "Yes, yes, I'm fine," she stammered, straightening. "Sorry—lost in thought."

Cor lingered for a moment, but then took his hand away and laid back again, and Aravis cleared her throat and began the story.

When it was finished, Corin, Hana, Darrin, Romith, and Janey went off to bed. "Are y'goin' t'read another?" Ragna asked, her voice hoarse with exhaustion but hopeful.

Aravis looked at her. "If you want to listen…"

Ragna nodded eagerly, and Ram said, "These tales are charming."

She looked at Cor, who was gazing up at her from the ground. "I will gladly listen," he answered.

So she read "Whit and His Cat." After that was over, Ram yawned and went off to his tent for the night, as did Dor and Romith.

"One more?" Ragna begged.

Cor nodded. "I would listen to you all night, if I could."

So she read "The Six Swans." This was a slightly longer tale, and by the time she was done, Ragna was fighting sleep, and her own voice had grown rough. Ragna went off to bed, and Aravis went to close the book, but Cor reached over and took it from her, hide and all. "Are you going to bed now?"

"I think so," she said, her voice ragged.

"Could I read to you?" he asked quietly. "Just a short one. So you can sleep better."

It was a thin excuse, but she nodded and stretched out on her stomach, her cold hands by the fire. Cor moved closer to her, putting the book by her cheek so she could see the illustration of the story he'd picked. It was "The Goose Girl," and the girl in the picture was dark-haired and lovely, her dusky fingers reaching out as she scattered grain for the geese around her.

Cor read in a low voice so as not to wake the rest of the company, but Aravis didn't mind; it was deep and soothing, and she rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, a log slipped down in the hearth, and she realized that the fire had died down a long time ago. She dashed a hand across her eyes and sat up; someone's cloak slipped off of her shoulders. Cor was still sitting next to her, but he was leaning heavily on his sword, and when she touched him, he started and blinked at her for a moment. There was an indentation on his cheek from where he had rested it against the hilt.

"I think we fell asleep," she said.

"I didn't want to wake you," he admitted.

"Is this your cloak then?"

He nodded, and Aravis draped it back over his shoulders. "I should go to bed. And it's high time you trade in the watch and get some real sleep, too."

"Don't you want to know what happened to the goose girl?"

She couldn't help but smile, and she rubbed gently at the indent on his cheek. "Another night. You owe me three stories, after all."

"They'll be paid back with interest."

"I'll hold you to it. Goodnight, Cor."

"Goodnight, Aravis. Sleep well."

* * *

_A/N: Sushi + midterms = fluffy chapters. Sorry, guys! More substance next time, cross my hearts._


	41. Chapter Forty-One

_Chapter Forty-One_

The next few days were slow ones, characterized by low grey clouds scudding across the sky during the daylight hours and long, damp nights spent huddled around the fire. Autumn was well and truly upon them, there was no denying it. They woke on the last few days of October with frost covering their blankets and leaving little flakes on their eyelashes, and Cor looked anxiously between the sky and Borran's maps. "What is it?" Aravis asked in a low voice as everyone got ready to depart for the next day's travel.

"Borran tells me we are running low on time," Cor answered grimly, pointing to the spot on the map that marked Kostis. "We have just over a month to reach Castle Zohra before the snows will make it impossible."

"Castle Zohra is so near the Great Desert," Aravis countered with a frown. "Surely the snows there will not be as severe…"

"One would think, milady," Borran rasped in response. "But the hot desert air and the cold northern and wet sea air collide right over this region"—he tapped Castle Zohra—"creating a terrible thick, sticky snow. Surely, it does not last as long into the spring months as the northerly snows do, but it is more treacherous."

"So we need to cut time," said Cor. "We'll need to travel via Shadesport."

"What is so bad about that?" Aravis asked, looking at the coastal city on the map.

"It is a notorious slavers den," Borran answered grimly. "A fleshpot where Calormenes are sold to Telmarines and Archenlanders are sold to everyone. It is a dangerous place for young, healthy people to wander alone."

"Is it really as bad as all that?" Aravis said skeptically. "It could just be tales told to keep children indoors at night…"

"I've seen it," said Borran. "Companions of my youth, in a moment of foolhardiness, stolen away and gone forever."

Abruptly, he rolled up his maps and set about loading up his horse.

"Nothing you and I couldn't handle on our own," Cor said with a sigh. "But certainly not something I am keen on bringing the other women into if I can help it."

"We'll have to be quicker, then," Aravis answered. "I don't wish to go to Shadesport any more than Hana or Janey would. I might not be an Archenlander, you know, but I am still a woman, and there is always a demand for us in port cities."

"Don't I know it," Cor answered with a shudder. "You've kept your sword sharp, haven't you?"

She patted the hilt at her hip. "Sharp as can be. Don't worry about me—just do what needs to be done and I'll make do."

"That's easier said than done," he grumbled. "Right. Go get on Inga. We've got a lot of land to cover today."

As they traveled south along the coast, the air grew heavier with humidity. It was a gradual change over the course of several weeks, but Aravis noticed her hair curling in tighter and tighter ringlets, rather than the soft waves she was used to in the dry heat and dry cold of Calavar and Anvard, respectively. The terrain, too, changed; it grew rugged and craggy, iron-grey cliffs jutting unexpectedly out of the turf and bearing towering green pine trees that seemed to hold darkness in their boughs. As the soil became rockier and harder to till, settlements and villages grew few and far between, and there were many days when they could stand on one of the bluffs, look out in all directions, and see not a single tended field, mule trail, fencepost, tamed animal, lean-to, or stream of smoke.

They camped on the top of a dramatic outcropping the last night of October. It was a strangely clear night, and Aravis gazed at the stars above their heads, so dramatically different than they had been in Anvard. Beomia the Warrioress was the only familiar figure, her sword arm extended due east across the sky, as though gesturing to something.

"If I could draw like you, I would diagram the different celestial patterns across Archenland," she said to Cor as he settled down next to her, their backs to the fire a good distance away. "I don't think it's been done yet. See? There are constellations here I have only read about."

"I recognize Beomia," said Cor, pointing, "but I don't know any of the others."

"That there must be the Hound of Bask," Aravis replied. "The one just over the hills in the distance—"

"I don't see it—"

"Right there—" Aravis aligned her arm with Cor's eye and pointed at the cluster of distant stars. "See?"

"I think so," he said slowly. "Is the head the one that faces the right?"

"I would think so."

"Ahhh."

She lay back, her hands behind her head to cushion it from the cold, hard ground. "I am glad not to see the Northern Dragon anymore. All this talk of them waking makes me nervous."

"Me, too," Cor answered. "Do you think it's them causing all the trouble in the countryside?"

Aravis shrugged. "No one's seen them, have they? Dragons are fairly big, you know, and hard to miss when they're blasting your village and eating your livestock whole."

"But didn't that book you borrowed from Arrania say they were soundless?" he asked quizzically. "'Somewhat sentient creatures, capable of subterfuge and deceit.'"

The idea sent a shiver down Aravis's spine. "Yes, but the fire-blowing. Rather lights up the night, don't you think?"

"Yes," Cor said skeptically, "but what about the livestock in winter pastures? Hardly next to the home. One might think it was just lightning."

Just then, the wind shifted, blowing gently in their faces and toward the fire behind them, and Cor sat up straight. "Do you smell that?" he said.

"Smell what?"

He sniffed the air rather like a big dog. "Something's burning."

"The campfire?"

"No, the wind's in the wrong direction. Besides, it smells…smokier."

Aravis shivered. "Oh, stop teasing me, Cor!"

"No, I'm serious! Smell the air!"

She sat up reluctantly and breathed deeply of the chilly breeze. Indeed, there was a sinister charred smell underlying that of wet leaves and animals, but as soon as she was aware of it, the wind shifted again and the smell was gone."

"We're not the only ones around," Cor said nervously.

"They can't be that near," Aravis countered bracingly, sitting up straight and hugging her knees. "We would have seen their fire or heard them. Plus, we have the highest ground around. Let's just be careful and quiet and leave as early as we can."

Cor nodded briskly, loosening his sword in its sheath. "Still, I think I will post double guards tonight."

"As long as you only take one of them. You need your rest, Cor, just like anyone else. Let the older men take charge for a while."

Cor nodded again, this time more resignedly.

There were no Finnii attacks during the night, but it was still a long and restless one for Aravis, who awoke with every pop of the fire and owl hoot over their heads. Cor went equally sleepless, and she knew it because every time she rolled over, he opened his eyes and squeezed her elbow as if in reassurance.

When they doused the campfire and set out that day, though, the smell of fire followed them. It was a damp, sweet stench, just barely within their conscious awareness, and everyone could smell it. The horses grew uneasy, flaring their nostrils every time the wind changed and whickering anxiously. Even Inga expressed her fear in the form of a sharp nip to Aravis's soft upper arm.

They reached the next series of hills just after lunch. There was no pass to go between them, and attempting to ride around them would take the rest of the day and more, so they pointed the horses directly into the thick, dark woods and headed upwards. The smell of smoke was getting stronger, and the horses, slipping on the wet leaves, laced their ears back and bugled in distress.

"The horses don't like this one bit," Aravis said nervously to Cor, holding Inga's reins tightly as the animal pranced nervously and shied at each sound.

"No, but I'm reluctant to go any faster," Cor answered as Raider tossed his head and grunted at Inga. "The leaves and rocks are so dangerous—I don't want to risk anyone slipping and falling, or—"

Romith's shaggy pony shied at an invisible creature and screamed, rattling the pots and pans that were strapped to its back and scaring itself further.

"This is ridiculous," Aravis said. "They're frightened of something, just look at them. Something's not right." Inga tried to pull the reins from her hands, but she held on tightly.

"Do you blame them?" Cor asked grimly.

A few hours before twilight, they saw the glimmer of daylight ahead. The slope of the hill evened out, and the horses strained against the tight holds the companions had on the reins; the smoke now was strong, burning Aravis's eyes and making the dimness hazy. They broke out of the trees onto a bare hillside.

Somehow, she had known what they would see.

The sun, obscured by thick black smoke, shone weakly on their faces; all around them were the splintered remnants of a large swath of forest, broken and charred and still smoldering in places. The horses whinnied fearfully, and for a moment, the wind blew the thick smoke aside and they could see the charred remains of a small settlement, so recently burned to the ground that there were still faint orange flames in places.

Stunned to silence, the companions picked their way down the hillside to the plain, where the former village was nestled in the shadow of the bluffs. The horses grunted unhappily, and indeed it was a gruesome journey, the way scattered with broken bones and bits of what looked most terrifyingly like bits of bodies. Hana and Ragna turned green, and Janey rode with her eyes shut.

"It's like a fireball came down from the heavens," said Nim, his thin voice trembling.

Cor looked grey in the face. "It must have happened just yesterday," he said in a low voice to Aravis. "The hills hid the light of the fire from us."

"It must have been horrible," she breathed in response. Some of the homes were smashed to pieces, as if something large and heavy had fallen on them.

They trailed down the hill and into the village through the remnants of the gate. It was deathly silent there, as though the smoke and haze blocked out all sound, and Aravis held her breath as they dismounted.

"Look for survivors," Cor said grimly to everyone, though it was clear that he did not expect to find any.

Aravis, loosening her sword in its sheath, picked her way down a littered alley where an overturned cart was blocking the exit. There was a small cornhusk doll, charred and torn, near it, and she thought for a moment that she was going to vomit with sorrow, but then Cor was there, picking it up and pinching the burned bits off. "I'm sure the little girl will be wanting it back," he said in answer to her quizzical expression, and pocketed it.

"The cart," she said rather apprehensively. "We should check it…"

He nodded and drew his sword. There wasn't any need for it, but Aravis knew it made him feel better, so she said nothing. Together they approached the cart.

Cor uttered a sound of mixed horror and dismay. An group of people, large and small, had huddled behind the cart among spilled apples and bushels, but they hadn't escaped the wrath of whatever it was that had come upon the town; they were nothing but charred skeletons and scraps of melted cloth. A small child had crawled behind the wheel and had avoided the full force of the flame, but the smoke must have choked her in her last moments, and she lay curled in the fetal position. Aravis had to turn away.

Cor took out the cornhusk doll and looked at it for a moment, then put it away and turned his back on the scene. "We should go," he rasped out. "Leave this place."

"There must be someone here still alive," Aravis answered fiercely. "And if they are, they need our help."

Somewhere nearby, Corin must have reached the same conclusion, for they heard him calling out, "Hello? Hello! _Hello-o-o-o-o_—"

His voice broke off suddenly. Aravis and Cor waited for him to continue, but he didn't, and they glanced at each other. "Corin?" Cor yelled out. "What did you find?" He waited a moment for a response, then called, "_Corin_! Co-o-o-o—"

Aravis saw it before she heard it. A flash of color, the twang of a bowstring, and the dreadful thump of a short, stubby arrow driving into the splintered wall behind Cor's head. He dropped his sword with a clatter. Without thinking, Aravis clapped her hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, the blood from his cheek where the arrow had grazed him slick under her fingers.

"Are you mad?" came a low, hissing voice. "Do you _want_ it to hear you?"

Cor was breathing hard, but Aravis kept her hand firmly over his mouth. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice echoing in the alleyway.

"Ssh," came the voice again, more urgently this time.

"_Show yourself_!"

There was silence for a moment, but then there was a snap of splintering wood, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure clad in homespun grey wool stepped out from behind the overturned cart, aiming a taut bow and arrow directly at Aravis's heart.

Cor broke free from her grip and stepped in front of her, one hand out towards the archer and the other pushing Aravis farther back. "We mean you no harm," he said urgently. "Put the weapon down. Please."

"I'll do no such thing." The voice was female, Aravis realized, and she stared closely at the dirty-faced creature. It was indeed a woman, her face square and proud but feminine nonetheless. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"We're travelers," Cor said quickly. "Passing through. We smelled the smoke—"

"Put your hand back up," she snapped in a hissing whisper as Cor let his arm dip a little. He flung his hand up again and stepped back, gripping Aravis's arm with his other hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm Cadoc," Cor answered. "And this is Finuala. We're travelers, just passing—"

"Your _real_ names." The woman brandished the bow, and as Aravis watched her from behind Cor, she saw something familiar in her face…the mark of fear, total and utter fear, but an overwhelming need to _protect_.

She touched Cor's shoulder and stepped out from behind him, hands up in the air. "I'm Aravis," she said neutrally. "This is Cor. We're from the north, headed for Shadesport. We smelled the smoke from your town last night and came to investigate."

The woman did not lower her bow. "And the others—they're with you?"

"Yes," Aravis answered. "They are our friends and relations."

The woman stared intently at Aravis for a moment, then finally lowered her bow a few inches. "You should leave," she said bitterly. "While you still can."

"What does that mean?" Cor interjected.

Aravis laid her hand on his arm. "What we mean is that we want to know what happened here. So we can try to stop it…someday."

The woman took her eyes off of them just long enough to quickly scan the skies. "It's getting dark," she said abruptly. "Have you got food? Shelter?"

"Somewhat," Aravis answered. "Have you not eaten?"

The woman shook her head. "You must not go back into the forest. That's where it lives."

"Where _what_—"

"Come with us," Aravis cut across Cor. "Show us where is safe."

She laughed bitterly. "Nowhere is safe."

"At least tell us where we can hide for now—so we can give you food and shelter for at least a night."

"How many other women are there?" the woman asked roughly.

"There are four, including me," Aravis answered.

A moment passed, and the woman slowly lowered her bow the rest of the way; Aravis noticed for the first time that her tired, red-rimmed eyes were dark for an Archenlander, as was her hair. "The safest place is outside the town walls," she said with exhaustion in her voice. "Follow the treeline until it pulls away onto the next bluff."

"And you will meet us there?"

The woman paused, then nodded. "Soon. And keep quiet."

With that, she turned, slipped noiselessly around the cart, and was gone again. Cor released Aravis's arm, and she realized that he had been gripping it so tightly her fingers had nearly gone numb. "We should get the others," she said after a momentary pause.

He nodded wordlessly.

"Are you all right? You look pale."

"I really thought we would die there," he answered with a shaky laugh. "I was convinced I would blink only to find you stuck through with arrows."

"That would have been unpleasant. Luckily, no such thing happened. You're not upset that I invited her to come with us, are you?"

"Upset? No. Worried? Yes."

"But did you look at her, Cor? So dirty, her dress all torn and sooty—do you see any food around? She must have been the only survivor. The nearest town is miles and miles away."

"She's not a lost puppy, Aravis."

"I know. But I still think we ought to help her."

He breathed deeply and poorly suppressed a shudder as they returned to the others. "Still, please, sleep between me and Corin tonight. I feel so uneasy about all of this..."

Aravis did not argue.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for the patience, guys! My midterms are spaced very inconveniently for writing. Oy. _

_Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to __littleperson1832, just because. :)_


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

_Chapter Forty-Two_

"You _what_?"

"Sssh," Aravis and Cor said in unison.

"Don't _sssh_ me—you're the ones who invited a perfect stranger to join our camp—"

"Corin, she's a survivor of the attack, or whatever it was that happened here," Cor said bracingly. "She needs food and shelter. And she can tell us exactly what happened."

"Did you actually ask her if she was a survivor?" Corin retorted, his cheeks pink with frustration. "For all we know, she could have been the one to carry out the attack—"

Aravis rolled her eyes. "Well, we've given our word now. It's too late to back down."

Corin harrumphed and threw his hands up in the air, obviously very keen on having his displeasure made known. "Lion's mane. Just _marry_ each other, why don't you—you've got the imperious natures down pat. Yes, Your Majesties, I'll do as I'm told."

"A bit displeased, do you think?" Cor said dryly as Corin strode back to the others.

"I forgot how sarcastic he can get," Aravis replied. "And here I was thinking _you_ were the smart-aleck of the family."

"Har," replied Cor. "Very funny. Now come along, you, we should have the camp set up when she comes back, and I want to make a thorough check of the area before we settle in."

So the companions edged back out of the town and along the treeline, where the mysterious woman had directed them. It was dusk now, and the darkness seemed to be leaking from the boughs of the silent trees. There was nothing suspicious in the woods, though, the men reported, so they set up camp where the woman had said to, outside of the forest but against a large outcropping of boulders, so they could at least have some protection.

"What was she like?" Hana asked in a low voice as Aravis helped her pitch her tent. "The woman, I mean."

"Big, and dirty," Aravis answered. "But she looked like she'd been hurt, and she hadn't eaten…how could I have turned away?"

"You could have," said Janey, swooping in. "But I think it a mark of high breeding that you didn't. Eh, Hana?"

Hana nodded. "I would have been too afraid…Corin said she had a bow!"

"Take a look at Cor's face," Janey said grimly. "A bit close for comfort, don't you think? Practically gave him a shave."

"She's a good shot, if nothing else."

Janey looked keenly at Aravis. "You sound thoughtful, Aravis. What are you planning?"

Aravis felt a flush growing on her cheeks, and she glanced over at Ragna, who was sitting nearby and looking apprehensive, to hide it. "I just think—well, if we like her, that is—the poor woman probably lost everything in whatever befell this town. What if we took her back to Anvard with us?"

"As another bride?" Hana said skeptically.

"I guess so. But Cor wouldn't have to marry her, you know—every woman who comes back with us is practically guaranteed a husband. We might be doing this woman a favor."

Ragna gasped suddenly, and everyone looked up. The woman was standing at the edge of the woods, an arrow loose in one hand but not nocked in her bow. Now that the haze from the burning village was gone, Aravis could see her clearly; her thin, grey homespun dress was charred and torn, tinged a rusty red in spots, and she stood awkwardly, favoring her left leg.

"Hello," Aravis said, striding forward. "Have we made camp in the right place?"

The woman scanned them all quickly, looking taut and pale until she noticed Hana, Janey, and Ragna. "Yes," she said. "Good enough."

"Here, come sit by the fire," Cor said. "There's tea and porridge warming up."

She hesitated.

Janey stood up, swinging her cloak from her shoulders. "You look frigid, love," she said matter-of-factly. "Take my cloak, at least."

At last, she stepped forward from the trees, accepting Janey's cloak with a look of poorly disguised relief. Romith dished her out a bowl of porridge, which she ate so quickly she seemed to have inhaled it.

"I'm Aravis," Aravis reminded her gently after letting her eat for a bit. "And you remember Cor."

She nodded over her mug of tea as Romith refilled her porridge.

"And this is Janey—and Hana. Ragna's there."

"'Oo's that?" the woman asked, jerking her head at Corin.

"Corin," said Corin, looking startled.

The woman looked quickly between him and Cor before satisfying herself that all seemed to be in order.

"What's your name?" Aravis asked.

"Findora," said the woman after a pause.

"Findora. What happened here?"

"To Woodbarrow," said Findora bitterly. "That's its name. Not that anyone will remember it."

"Woodbarrow," Cor said thoughtfully. "It's not on any map."

"Why would it be?" Findora replied. "Just a few dozen families. Nothin' worth being incorporated for."

"That's why this happened," Janey mused. "Woodbarrow doesn't have any noble protector."

Findora glared down into her tea.

"But that's just it," said Cor. "We don't know _what_ happened here."

She flinched as though his words were a slap, and the tea in her mug splashed as she tried to hide a trembling in her hands. "You mean you haven't heard? It's been all over the countryside."

"_What_?"

The eyes that Findora raised to meet Aravis's were big, haunted ones. "The _monsters_. The night-wraiths—dunno what they're really called—huge, scaly beasts with wings like bats—" She broke off and shuddered deeply. Janey patted her shoulder. "They…they came two nights ago. We should have known they would. Animals've been stolen for weeks, months now…or, if not stolen, eaten right in our fields. Naught but skin and bones left. And then…a few weeks ago…people."

"People?" Cor said in confusion.

Findora shivered again and looked up at the setting sun. "First it was a child who wandered into the woods. Never came back. It's so thick and dark that even we don't know all its secrets. And then it was women. And then grown men. We thought it might be the slavers taking them. And then…"

"Wha'?" Ragna pressed breathlessly.

"And then we—" She swallowed visibly "—and then we found Red. Naught but his head and cloak left. Damn beasts got the rest of him and spit his walking staff back out."

Aravis was almost afraid to ask, but she did anyway. "Who was Red?"

Findora sighed. "My sister's husband. An' her se'en months with his child."

Everyone was silent.

"A few nights ago," Findora went on without being prompted, "they came right before dawn. Most of us didn't even know what hit us. They—the _things_—they—" She shook her head violently. "_Fire_. They spat _fire_. So much flame…"

"And you…"

"I ran," she spat out. "I ran and hid in the well."

"What happened to the beasts?" Cor said gently.

It was as though his words reminded Findora where she was. She sat up straight, looked at the sky, and then watched the woods for a long time. Finally, she spoke again, her voice uneven. "I don't know. They disappeared, into the woods. But…but loud noises wake them…I've seen it now already, even just since—" She broke off and handed Aravis her empty mug. "They come out of the woods when it's darkest. You'll have to douse your fire."

"No, no," said Corin quickly. "How do we know you're not just making this up?"

Cor rubbed his eyes with exasperation, and Findora fixed the other twin with a steady gaze. "You're just going to have to trust me," she said shortly, then stood up. "I'll be going now."

"Wait a moment," Cor said as she strode away from the fire. "Where are you going?"

"Home, before night falls," Findora answered. "What's left of it."

"Well, what are you going to do for food? For shelter once winter comes?"

Findora looked like she was chewing on her tongue.

"You can't go," Aravis broke in. "It's not safe, you said so yourself. Stay the night with us, at least. You can decide what you're going to do in the morning."

Findora hesitated a moment, then hurried off into the falling darkness. Aravis sighed.

"Well, that was close," Corin sighed. "How do we know she wasn't working for the Finnii?"

Cor rolled his eyes.

Feeling rather let down, Aravis returned to the fire and accepted a bowl of porridge from Romith. "Well, we tried," Cor said, seating himself next to her.

"Not hard enough. I wanted to take her with us to Anvard."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "You certainly have changed your tune about my brides—"

"Ssh," Aravis said quickly, flushing. "All I mean is that she would have had such a better chance at survival if she had let us help her."

"Some people don't want to be helped."

"Yes, but still…"

He shrugged and unconsciously loosened his sword in its sheath. "I would have liked her to stay merely on the count that she's seen the dragons in action. Knows a little bit about them. How they work."

"You're _not_ going to try to slay one, Cor," Aravis said sternly. "That only works in the stories."

"Yes, but what if I _did_," Cor wheedled. "Can you imagine riding triumphantly into Anvard with a dragon's skull on your saddle?"

"No, but I can imagine riding around Archenland for the next six months having to cart a ridiculously heavy skull around—"

"A _dragon skull_—"

"—That's empty, just like yours—"

"No dragon-fighting," said Janey as she sat down on Aravis's other side, as if that settled it. "We don't even know what they look like yet, much less how to fight one. I'd hate to have you try first, Cor, and end up a dragon snack before you even draw your sword."

"_Thank you_," Cor said indignantly.

Aravis laughed. "You drew them like salamanders with wings in the book," she said, nudging him with her elbow. "I think they would be slightly bigger in real life."

"I did not draw them like salamanders!" he retorted. "This isn't fair—bring the book here, Aravis, and I'll show you—"

"Ooh," said Hana suddenly around a mouthful of porridge, pointing somewhere off in the distance.

Everyone turned to look where she was indicating. At first, Aravis saw nothing, but then a shadow moved, and she took a quick breath. Ram and Darrin leapt up, drawing their swords. "No, don't," Cor and Aravis said in unison. "It's Findora!"

The woman came slowly back into the light of the fire, leading a plodding, grey-nosed mule by the halter. But she wasn't alone—seated on the mule, wincing with every step, was another young woman, swathed in bandages and protectively holding an arm around a very swollen belly.

"You came back," Cor said breathlessly as Findora pulled the mule up next to the fire. "But I—we thought you were the only survivor."

"You never asked," Findora answered. "This is my sister, Brynwen. She was with me when it…"

Ram and Darrin leapt forward to help the pregnant woman down from the mule. She was young, Aravis saw, probably the same age as herself, and she had a strange, grayish pinched look about her face that didn't disappear even when she smiled faintly at Romith as he gave her a bowl of porridge.

"Here, sit," Nim said hastily, leaping up so Brynwen could take his place by the fire. "You look quite exhausted."

"I hope you don't mind me bringing her," Findora said brusquely to Cor and Aravis as they helped her brush down and feed her ancient mule. "As you can see, she is not well. I think she may give birth any day, if she has the strength."

"You mustn't stay here tomorrow," Aravis said urgently. "Cor—"

"No, not with your sister the way she is," Cor agreed. "You must come with us. We are headed to Shadesport, but we are returning to the capital city in six months. We can provide food and shelter for you."

Findora looked startled. "How?" she asked, a hint of disbelief in her challenge.

Cor looked at Aravis. She nodded.

"Perhaps you should sit down and think about this carefully," Cor said. "I think this is the kind of offer one might hear once in a lifetime."


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

_Chapter Forty-Three_

The night was long, dark, and freezing. Aravis slept no better than she had the night before; though they had listened to Findora and doused the campfire, she could hear distant sounds from the forest. They weren't the comforting, homey sounds she was used to, either (no owls, no gentle whisper of wind in the leaves)—they were faint rattling noises, deep thrumming eerie keening sounds. Her skin crawled with fear, even though she was surrounded on both sides by the twins, who were sleeping with their swords under their bedrolls.

Somewhere close to dawn, she awoke from a light doze to the distant whisper of movement; they were a long way from Woodbarrow, but the sounds seemed to be coming from that direction, the unmistakable cracking and tearing of a wild animal at its food. Before she could stop herself, she was touching Cor's arm. "_Cor_…"

He was awake in an instant. "What is it? Are you all right?"

"Ssh. Yes, I'm fine. Just…"

The soft, eerie keen sounded again, trembling in the air until it seemed to pierce to the very depths of her soul and echo in her belly.

"Frightened?" Cor finished softly for her. "Me, too."

"Do you think it's them?"

She felt more than saw him nod. "But Ram and Borran both have watch now. If they can't keep us safe, no one can."

"I hope so."

Somehow in the dark, his hand found hers, and he squeezed her fingers. "I suppose I ought to tell you," he said after a moment.

"You're not Corin, are you?"

"No," he said after a very unrefined snort of laughter that made the real Corin shift in his sleep.

"Then what?"

"I guess…well, I'm always frightened. Some times more than others. Traveling in the forest scares me. The idea of dragons scares me. The thought of being king scares me. That's why I wanted you to come along so badly. I'm not nearly as scared when you're with me."

She sighed and squeezed his hand back, the calluses on his fingers rough against her palm. "Shut up, you big, sweet lug."

He listened well, and she drifted off to a sound sleep with his hand still tight around hers.

* * *

The next morning, they set off immediately after a light breakfast of cold salt ham and the tea that was left over from the night before. Findora ate everything that was set in front of her, but Brynwen only nibbled at her pork before setting it back down with a sigh. Aravis and Janey traded grim glances, but no one said anything.

It was a dark, foggy day, the kind of weather that muffles all sound and makes you feel tired and sad no matter the amount of sleep you got the night before. Accordingly, the horses were skittish and restless again. "They do not like this place," Cor growled in frustration.

"It's the forest," said Findora ominously. "We shouldn't be traveling in it."

"But we have no choice," Corin answered. "The forest stands between us and Shadesport. Unless you have a better idea…?"

Findora was silent.

"Thought not," said Corin.

Lunch was early in the afternoon by Nim's pocket watch, but the sun was so obscured by clouds and trees that time seemed to stand still. They ate quietly, the only sound being the steady crunch of the oats the horses were eating.

"Are you all right?"

Findora's voice broke the solitude, and everyone looked over at Brynwen. She was sitting awkwardly with her arms around her swollen belly, staring at the ground in front of her. "Yes," she said shortly.

Aravis and Cor glanced at each other, and Cor then turned to Rhys and gave him a meaningful look.

Rhys nodded and went over to Brynwen, who hardly stirred when he took her wrist to feel her pulse. "Hm," he said. "Racing heart. Are you feeling well, my dear?"

She didn't answer, and Rhys felt her forehead. A moment later he straightened and pulled Cor and Findora aside, speaking to them in a voice that Aravis could not hear. She, Hana, and Ragna went about clearing up from lunch but strained to hear the urgent whispers.

"Aravis, please come here, " said Cor suddenly.

Janey, Hana, and Ragna looked sharply at her, but Aravis shrugged before going over to where Cor, Rhys, and Findora stood. Findora was looking pale. "What's going on?" Aravis asked.

"I think Brynwen may be going into labor," Rhys said quietly. "But she is so weak that I wish to get her to the next village, at least. We are not far if we hurry."

"When would we reach it?"

"If someone took her on a horse," said Findora, "Belfield is a day away."

Aravis glanced at Brynwen, who was breathing shallowly. "Can she travel that far?" "She is weak," Rhys said. "Her labor will be long and hard once it begins. If she leaves now, she has a good chance of reaching Belfield before the child comes."

"So what would you have me do?"

"Have you ever attended a birth?"

She shook her head. "No. But Janey has. And perhaps Hana and Ragna."

"Janey should go with her, then," said Cor. "And Ram knows the region."

"I'll tell Janey," said Aravis, turning right away and hurrying to Janey's side. "Janey—you're needed."

"What's wrong?"

"Rhys thinks Brynwen is going into labor. There's a town nearby, but Cor wants you and Ram to go ahead with her."

Janey nodded stoutly. "Of course. I've seen plenty of births before—this won't be hard."

"Thank you," said Aravis. "I'll give you Inga—she's fast and steady."

Meanwhile, Ram and Rhys were speaking quickly to Brynwen, who looked pale as she nodded faintly. "Right," said Ram, "up you get, old girl." He put his hand under her elbow and practically lifted her from her seated position.

Aravis saw the blood at the same moment that Brynwen doubled over and cried out, her voice echoing against the trees around them. Her skirt as soaked, and some of the blood dripped down onto the pine needles that covered the ground like a thick carpet.

"Get a blanket," Janey barked. "A bedroll. Quick—she needs to lie down—"

Rhys looked ashen as Hana and Ragna scrambled about, getting blankets and spreading them out among the roots of one of the trees. "I didn't—I didn't see," he stammered helplessly. "She's—_oh_—been in labor for some time now—"

"You should have said something," Janey sternly told Brynwen as she helped the wide-eyed woman down onto the makeshift cot. "This bleeding—it's not good."

"Ligh' a fire," Ragna snapped suddenly at the other men who were standing by rather slack-jawed. "We need 'ot water. 'N more blankets."

"Have you helped in a birth before?" Hana asked her.

Ragna colored. "Heifers 'n ewes. Not much diff'rent."

"The fire will attract the beasts," Findora broke in pleadingly, rushing over to where Dor was striking the flint. "No—we can't—"

Hana hurried to her side and physically stopped her from getting closer to the fire. "We _need_ hot water and heat," she said firmly. "Your sister needs it. Besides, it's daylight out and there are many of us. The beasts will leave us be."

Findora looked wide-eyed with fear, but she nodded sharply and went to her sister's side, sitting down and setting to stroking the younger woman's pale forehead.

The horses had caught the scent of blood now, and they were worrying their bits and tugging at the ties that held them to a low-hanging branch. Only Inga was quiet, her ears pricked forward and proud head turned towards Brynwen as if she was watching.

Janey, wiping her hands on a blanket, came over to Aravis's side and helped her throw a few twigs onto the fire. "It does not look promising," she said in a low voice. Rhys bent down to hear her better. "She has been bleeding for some time now, by the state of things. I fear that her water ruptured prematurely—perhaps during the attack?"

"Is that bad?" Aravis asked, feeling distinctly ignorant.

"It can be," Rhys answered. "Particularly when you consider the quickness of her heartbeat and her shallow breaths. She needs to be delivered immediately…"

"Have you got black cohosh or motherwort in that magic pouch of yours?" Janey asked Rhys. "It will—"

"Induce labor pains," Rhys finished for her. "Yes—both." He went over and immediately started clattering around the fire, throwing herbs and other identified materials into a pot while he waited for the water to boil.

"What can I do?" Aravis asked.

Janey sighed and glanced over at the young mother, whose brow was glistening with sweat. Hana was smoothing a cloth over her damp face while Ragna packed cloths and blankets against her body to staunch the flow of blood. "There's not much, I fear," Janey answered. "Just stay nearby for now."

Brynwen let out a shivering cry that she muffled quickly. Rhys hovered over her and helped her sip the steaming tea he had brewed, simultaneously feeling her pulse again. "Dear, dear," Janey clucked, hurrying over to them.

"I feel rather out of my element," Aravis admitted to Cor in a low voice. "Like I'm all thumbs."

"_You_ feel out of place," he answered wryly. "At least _you're_ female."

They stood side-by-side, watching the goings-on with a sense of helplessness. Ragna and Hana took turns helping Brynwen hobble around in the campsite in the hopes that it would stimulate things, and there were soon spots of blood all around them where she would stop and double over in pain. Soon, she could hardly stand, and she lay back on her makeshift cot and whimpered.

"Any moment now," Janey crooned, her hands working busily under the blanket that was draped over Brynwen's lap. "Attalass."

Aravis turned away to stir the fire; at that very moment, Brynwen gave a piercing wail. The suddenness of it startled everyone, the horses squealing in surprise and tossing their heads.

"You must try to keep quiet, love," Findora begged. "Please, Bryn. Please."

Brynwen's face was contorted with pain and fear, but her eyes rolled back to look at her sister.

"Push again, dear," Janey commanded.

Brynwen obeyed, but she couldn't muffle another scream. The sound of her voice echoed for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, and the men shifted about nervously. Janey and Ragna scrambled for blankets. "Good lass," Janey said, but Aravis could hear a note of worry in her voice. "Keep at it."

As Brynwen gripped Hana's hand and strained, her face going red, Aravis heard the sound that made her blood run cold. It was so faint and distant that at first she thought she had imagined it, but then she heard it again: a soft, long keen, tremulous and ethereal. Cor heard it, too; he went a terrible grey color and turned to look at her so quickly he seemed likely to have cricked his neck.

"Did you—" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

Brynwen let out another elongated scream, her voice cracking with pain. Aravis heard another keening cry in the distance, this time in a lower register as if it were replying to the earlier one.

"They can hear her," Aravis said. "And I'll wager they can smell the blood."

Cor stared at her in horror. "They can—"

She nodded stiffly. "The horses can smell it, why wouldn't the beasts?"

He looked at her for another moment before seizing the kettle from the fire. As Aravis watched, he went about the camp, pouring steaming water on the patches of blood that were drying all around them and stirring them up with his foot.

"The beasts are coming, aren't they?" Findora said calmly. She had Brynwen's head in her lap and was stroking the hair away from the young woman's ashen face. They looked particularly alike in that moment, Aravis thought, with their strong features and dark hair.

Cor nodded after a moment.

Findora watched him with narrow, unreadable eyes, and then bent down to Brynwen and whispered soothing words, continuing to stroke the young woman's hair and mopping the sweat from her brow.

"_Aravis_," said Janey urgently. "We need you—and Cor, boil more water—"

Aravis left Cor's side and hurried to the makeshift cot. "What—"

"Hold her knee," Janey directed, her round face flushed but drawn. "She's not keeping her legs open near enough."

Aravis took hold of Brynwen's leg and drew it aside, glancing grimly at Hana, who was holding the right knee. Brynwen whimpered and her head lolled weakly in Findora's lap as Ragna attempted to dribble water between her lips.

_Creeee…_

The eerie sound echoed around them, still distant but clearer than before. As if she had heard it, Brynwen doubled up suddenly and heaved, screaming shrilly as a rush of blood came from between her legs. Janey went pale.

"What is it?" Hana asked.

Janey ignored her. "Brynwen," she said loudly, "you _must_ push hard now. You must get your baby out."

Brynwen was sobbing and speaking incoherently, and Aravis looked down where Janey's hands were. Streaked with blood and fluid was a strange pinkish cord, looped around itself tightly before reaching back up into Brynwen's body. "Push _now_," Janey demanded. Brynwen screamed; the cord moved slightly.

_Creeeee!_

"_Now_!"

Aravis heard the whisper of steel behind them and knew the men were drawing their swords. Her hands began to shake.

"Keep her leg back," Janey snapped at her. "Brynwen, _now_!"

Brynwen let out a heartbreaking wail of anguish.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across them. Aravis didn't notice at first, but then a cacophony of sound erupted around her; the men were shouting, the horses bugling, Brynwen screaming, and above all, there was the ear-splitting, unearthly shriek of a wild animal seizing its prey. She spun around. The first thing she saw was a set of talons, jet-black and caked with dried blood, slashing and tearing at the grey-nosed mule as it wheezed. The image burned indelibly into her brain.

It didn't look much like the drawings in the book, though, she thought stupidly as the dragon keened and tore out the mule's innards with one bite. It was smaller than she had expected, but the shape of its head and the soft, good condition of its scales gave her the impression that it was a juvenile. Even so, it was at least twice the size of the poor mule.

A moment later, it had finished with the mule and spread its leathery black wings, snarling and growling in a spectral voice at the huddle of blood-streaked women.

"_Oy_!"

Cor threw a large stone at the creature, stumbling slightly over a stick as he did so. It keened high and whipped around, its tail whooshing over the women's heads so closely Aravis's hair stirred, and reached out for him with long, bloody teeth. Corin whooped and threw him Raider's reins, and he, Darrin, and Ram spurred their terrified horses towards the great black beast, screaming and banging their swords against their shields and making a terrific racket. Snarling, the dragon spread its wings and lifted into the air, slashing at them with its talons.

"_Incoming_!" Corin bellowed.

Brynwen screamed as another, dark green dragon swooped down out of seeming nowhere. Before it could land, though, Borran loosed an arrow that buried itself in the crux of the beast's leg. It roared and veered to the side, clipping the black dragon with its wing. Ram took the moment of distraction and circled around behind them, blowing hard on a hunting horn until the woods rang with sound. The dragons screeched and climbed higher into the trees until pine needles rained down upon the humans on the ground.

"Flush them out!" Ram shouted. "Like sheep!"

Corin let out a fierce yodeling cry which Cor took up, and with that and Ram's hunting horn and Borran's bow, they herded the dragons deeper into the trees. The sound of battle echoed around the women for some time until all was silent.

Aravis's ears rang painfully. "Now's your chance," she heard Janey pleading, but her voice seemed to be coming from a distance. Brynwen was strangely silent.

"Please, Bryn, _push_," said Findora.

Brynwen was pale and her lips had a faint bluish tinge to them, but she gripped Findora's hand, took a deep breath, and heaved another time. Janey yelped involuntarily and said, "Aravis, a blanket! A _blanket_!"

Aravis fumbled with a small woolen coverlet and Janey tore it out of her grasp a second later, wrapping a small, slick bundle up with trembling hands. "It's a boy," she said wonderingly.

"D'you hear that?" Findora said with a gasp, shaking Brynwen's hand and shoulder. "A boy! What will you name it?"

"Red, 'f course," Brynwen answered softly. "After 'is papa."

Aravis smiled and turned to Janey. But Janey was not kneeling by Brynwen's feet; rather, the bundle cradled in her arms, she was crouched by the fire, her hands working vigorously. Aravis hurried over.

"What's—" she started, and then saw the child. His skin, streaked with blood and fluid, was a horrid grayish blue color, and his small eyes were shut tightly despite Janey's frantic massaging of his chest with a wet cloth.

"I can't get him to respond," Janey said in a soft, high voice, tears swimming in her eyes.

Somehow, Aravis felt calm and collected. With steady hands, she reached down and scooped the tiny bundle up. The baby felt heavy in her arms, like a sack of flour, and its little fingers were cold and stiff. She held her hand out for the cloth. Slowly and gently, she cleaned the blood from Red's little body, then wrapped him back up in the blanket and looked at Janey. "How will we tell Brynwen?"

"You needn't anymore," came Findora's dull voice.

They turned. Brynwen lay quite still on her makeshift cot, her eyes shut and face a stony white against Findora's blood-stained fingertips. Ragna and Hana were huddled together and holding back tears with some difficulty.

"Findora, I'm so sorry," Janey said faintly. "I—she must have…"

"There was nothing you could have done," Findora answered. "She was always small. Mama said she'd have trouble."

"We'll help you clean her up," Aravis said. "And give her a good place to sleep."

Findora shrugged. "I'll clean her. There's no need for you to help—you should rest. 'Sides…she would have wanted it this way."

And so they sat and watched as Findora methodically wiped the blood from Brynwen's thighs and pulled her skirt down to her ankles. She brushed the dirt from Brynwen's hair and plaited it neatly across her shoulder, wiped the last beads of sweat from her cheeks, and gently folded her hands across her still-swollen belly. Then, after a moment of wavering, she nestled the tiny bundle in the crook of Brynwen's neck and pulled a bloodstained blanket up over both of them. It looked to Aravis like mother and child had merely fallen asleep.

Hana choked back a sob, and Ragna put her arms around her.

"We should wait for the menfolk to get back," Findora said dully. "They'll be better at digging a grave for them."

It didn't occur to any of them that they were alone, unprotected, and in a strange place. Ragna lit the fire and Hana warmed some tea and porridge as the light slowly faded away; they picked delicately at their food but ate little. All Aravis could think of was the tiny grey-face baby and how long it had been since Cor had gone off with the dragon.

At last, as the sounds of nighttime were starting up around them, they heard the welcome noises of horses and men's voices. They leapt up as a unit and hurried forward as Corin and Rhys came into the failing light of dusk; they, too, were streaked with blood as the dismounted, grim looks on their faces.

"What happened?" Aravis asked, a cold fist seizing her stomach. "Corin, tell me—"

Borran came next, leading Raider by the head. A large bundle was slung over the saddle.

"_No_," Aravis burst out. "No, I won't believe it—Corin—Cor—_Cor, no_—"

"Aravis—it's all right. Come here—" She saw Cor, then, stepping out from behind Raider: bloody, bruised, and beaten, but still very much alive, judging by how hard he pulled her against him. She covered her eyes with one trembling hand and buried her face in his sweaty shoulder. "It's all right," he repeated. "It's all right. I'm all right. Are you all right?"

"I'm all right," she whispered.

"Good."

"But if you're not—" She remembered the bundle again suddenly and stepped back.

He looked despairingly at her, holding tightly to her hand as if he was afraid she, too, would slip away. "_Nim_."

They laid Nim's torn and bloody body next to Brynwen's, as it was too dark now to dig their graves. That mournful task would have to wait until morning. No one said anything as Rhys went about patching up the wounds the dragons had given the men; that much was easy enough to treat. It was the wounds she couldn't see that grieved Aravis the most.

"Tomorrow, we head for Shadesport," Cor said quietly before everyone curled up to attempt to sleep. "Put this place behind us. We will stock up there and then leave directly for Zohra—no more distractions, no more dallying. We can't afford any more risks."

Aravis's hand was beginning to grow sore from how tightly he had been holding it, but she said nothing, only nodded and adjusted his cloak so it would keep him as warm as possible. She had a feeling it would be a long night.


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

_Chapter Forty-Four_

The ground was frozen hard when they woke up. Aravis's plait, which had slipped out from under her hood during the night, was encrusted with frost, and it took Romith longer than usual to get the fire started. They all drank deeply of his steaming hot tea, but ate little; it was hard to have an appetite when the two shrouded bundles waited silently for them under the tree.

Findora was the first to gather the courage to get up and go over to them. Slowly, she touched Brynwen's stony white face and brushed a lock of her dark hair off her cheek. Aravis knelt by the bundle that had once been Nim and attempted to pull the red-stained cloak back from his face; the blood had frozen, though, and it stuck fast until suddenly, with a stomach-churning ripping sound, it tore free, taking a chunk of Nim's cheek with it. Everyone turned away from the sight, but Nim's cloudy blue eyes held Aravis's gaze and seemed to watch her until she shuddered and dropped the cloth back.

"The ground is too hard to dig graves in," Corin said after a few moments of silence.

"We'll have to build cairns," Cor answered. "Like they did for the First Men, and the kings who died during the Great Winter." He huffed a sigh, the breath rising from his mouth in a cloud of steam. "Right. Darrin, Ram, Dor and Romith, come with me and let's collect stones. Corin, stay here. I don't want those things catching the best of us again."

Corin nodded.

"Be careful," Ragna burst out tearfully. "You di'n't kill t' beasts, did you? They'll come back, they've caught t'scent o' your blood now."

"We'll be just fine," Cor replied with a confidence Aravis knew he didn't feel, reaching out a hand to Ragna. She bypassed it completely and flung herself into his arms; he flinched as she bumped his bandaged arm where one of the dragons' talons had torn a long gash.

"Promise," Ragna said in a muffled voice.

"I promise," Cor replied, giving Aravis a grim look over Ragna's head. He gently peeled her off of him and stepped back. "We'll only be gone a while."

"Take as long as you can," said Findora from where she sat beside her sister's body. Cor didn't ask why.

When the sound of the men's feet had faded away into the forest, Hana wiped a pale hand across her face and sat up with an effort, as if she had a heavy burden on her back. "We should begin the rituals," she said softly, more to Findora than to anyone else. "Brynwen and Lord Nim mustn't be buried without care."

Findora nodded numbly, and they began the slow, arduous process of preparing the bodies for the grave. Aravis felt adrift again, watching the more capable women performing the duties they had been trained since childhood to do; as a tarkheena, she had been shielded from death, never even being allowed to attend her mother's funeral. Even if she had, she had the sense that the rituals were completely different.

After warming some water over the fire, Hana and Janey tensed their jaws and pulled the bloodstained cloak back from Nim's body. Aravis caught her breath—Nim's belly, now stiff and taut, was torn so that bits of black bowel poked through his tunic in places. Ragna blanched, and Hana quickly covered that part up again. Instead, they worked on the bits of flesh that were visible—Nim's blood- and dirt-streaked face, neck, and hands—with damp rags, scrubbing him clean and giving him the impression of tense, unnatural sleep. After Janey had closed his eyelids with trembling fingers, Corin reached down and helped them roll him up first in the bloodstained cloak, which Janey secured with a hairpin from her plait, and then gently wrapped the bundle in the fine woolen blanket he had slept on in the past months. Ragna tenderly fastened his cloak pin, a beautiful gold piece worked in the shape of his family crest, to the blanket. Corin watched her for a moment, and then placed Nim's old sword in its water-stained sheath on top of the bundle in the manner of the ancient kings.

Then they turned to the bundle that had once been Brynwen. There was very little to do now, Findora had cleaned her so well the night before; still, Ragna and Janey ran their warm cloths over the pale, blue faces of mother and child, the flesh cold and unyielding under their hands. Findora slowly brushed out Brynwen's hair and plaited it again so it lay neatly over her shoulder; wordlessly, Ragna rummaged in her satchel and produced a small blue ribbon, which Findora tied neatly at the end of the braid and smoothed down until it lay just so.

Corin came over and helped them tuck the blankets securely around the bodies; Janey fastened the shroud with another hairpin, pressing out the wrinkles from the fabric with her short fingers.

The women then stood back, and Janey nodded to Hana. For a moment, Aravis was keenly aware of a shivering silence in the air; then Hana opened her mouth, and with a high, pure voice that shook on the upswing, the young woman began to sing in the complex language of the First Men. Though Aravis had heard the old tongue sung before, never had she heard it wailed in such a haunting manner. Hana's clear voice, taut with emotion, seemed to soar above the trees, stretching until the words she was forming with her mouth became inconsequential; Aravis was borne along by the grief-stricken undulations of the music, the singing now the immaterial wail of her wounded heart.

She then realized that Janey and Ragna were singing along, Ragna's raspy voice and Janey's soulful humming adding layers of fear and pain to the pure grief of Hana's song. Soon, Findora's voice joined them, a trembling addition of rage that darkened the tone of the music to one of despair.

A heavy mist flooded the clearing, and it took Aravis quite a while to realize that it was the fog of her own tears; the weight of the two shrouded figures in front of her seemed to settle on her shoulders, and the memories she had of Nim—his fatherly kindness, his steadfast loyalty to Cor—and it slowly dawned on her that in his passing, she had lost an ally, a true friend.

Corin put a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she saw through her tears that his own eyes were wet. Of course, she thought, angry with herself, she had no right to mourn Nim—it was Cor and Corin who felt his loss the deepest.

Hana and Ragna were still singing, their voices intertwining in otherworldly beauty, when the men returned with slings full of mossy grey stones. Wordlessly, they all set to the solemn task of arranging them properly; they began with Nim, ringing the bundle all round with the heavy big stones, the ones that would support the weight of the cairn. Hana and Ragna watched silently for a moment before opening their mouths and almost simultaneously letting forth a long, high, pure note, one that seemed to hold a lifetime's worth of grief. This song, a piercingly simple one of few notes, Aravis did recognize: it was the funeral song, one that she heard on occasion wafting up to her room in the east tower from somewhere in the depths of the city. The first time she had heard it, she wept, and today was no different.

She settled a heavy stone over Nim's legs. It felt so devastatingly wrong to do so: his blanketed feet poked out from beneath it, and she had the unnerving expectation that he would sit up suddenly and throw off his shroud. He did not, of course, and slowly, his familiar form was hidden beneath the crushing weight of mountain granite.

They then turned to the smaller bundle that waited nearby. Findora, who was very pale, said nothing as Rhys and Dor arranged the stones around it; when Ram went to place the first stone across the middle, though, her breath burst out in a sob.

"No, no, please," she cried out, stumbling toward him with a thin hand stretched out. "You'll hurt her. _Please_, no…"

She dropped to her knees by the small bundle and gathered it fiercely in her arms, her tears wracking her body and bursting out in raw gasps. "_No…no, _leave her_…please_, don't—_no_—"

Aravis had to turn away, hugging herself as if to keep her chest from splitting open. Findora's sobs tore at her innards.

Eventually, Hana, whose voice had broken and faded away long ago, knelt by Findora's side and, with tender whisperings, pulled her away from the bundle so Ram and the other men could finish the job. When it was done, and Nim and Brynwen and little Red were now no more than two stark mounds of stone, a heavy silence fell over the group. Aravis felt she should say something, but all words had ceased to have meaning to her, so she said nothing—the quiet was somehow more fitting.

Cor cleared his throat after a few minutes. Aravis did not dare look at him—the fear and pain she had felt the night before upon thinking him dead, however brief, still lingered in the pit of her stomach, and the cold cairns between them made the threat all the more real.

"We are grieving rather senselessly, don't you think?" he said abruptly.

Everyone shifted uncomfortably in response.

"Nim and Brynwen died senselessly." Aravis raised her eyes to look at him; he was standing with his feet spread but his shoulders bowed as he looked at the cairns. "They could both have been here today—and the child, too—if someone, somewhere, hadn't made mistakes. If the capital had heeded the rumors of the Old Ones and sought out the dragons before they grew, Nim would still be alive. If we hadn't tarried outside of Kostis, we could have helped Brynwen."

Findora tried to muffle her sobs, but was unable to. Janey embraced her and made soothing _shush_ing noises.

Cor rolled his shoulders back as if they ached. "But perhaps that is the lesson we ought to take from this. _People will always make mistakes_. They will always think the wrong ideas—do the wrong things—love the wrong people—and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.

"Nim, Brynwen, and Red are dead. It is someone's fault, somewhere. But so is everything wicked. If we spend our lives fretting about what-ifs and could-have-beens, we will have wasted them.

"So we grieve—that is right and good—but we also _accept_. We steel our resolve and move forward. Grief is for the living, but so is life."

He started another word, but broke off suddenly and dragged a hand across his ashen face. Aravis wanted nothing more than to be by his side.

Silence reigned for a long time. As they stood in vigil, the campfire burned to nothing, and the only sounds they could hear were the gentle soft noises of the forest, of life. Then Corin spoke, briefly and quietly: "The day grows long."

With one body, they turned to their horses and mounted up. The act, so familiar to Aravis, felt like a betrayal, and she could almost hear the voices of the dead calling to them, begging them not to leave them alone in the dark, lonely forest. Findora wept audibly as Darrin helped her onto Nim's horse.

"To Shadesport now," Cor said evenly as Raider pranced beneath him. "We have many miles to go before we can rest."

And just like that, they moved on from that place, the grey stone cairns shrinking and fading and soon being swallowed by trees. Aravis turned her face south, but she did so with a distinct sense that things were now going to be very different—her heart was missing a piece.


	45. Chapter Forty-Five

_Chapter Forty-Five_

It rained for the next few days. Autumn rain is the worst kind to have when one is heartsick, because it is deathly cold and has the propensity to make one long for a good supper and a warm bed even more so than one already does. Neither of those things could be found between the bluffs and the city of Shadesport, though. If any of them had felt much like talking, the weather would have drowned out that desire; as it was, though, Aravis's heart felt as numb as her fingers.

Cor was the only one who seemed immune to the melancholy of the group. He was quieter than usual, but it was a commanding silence, one that made the others look carefully at him whenever they spoke, as if gauging his reaction or perhaps seeking his approval. When he did speak, it was confidently and briefly—"We'll camp here tonight," or "Darrin, take the first watch." For what was perhaps the first time, Aravis understood the reality of the fact that she was in the presence of the future king.

But it was still uncanny. As they wended their way south, night after night and dreary day after dreary day, Aravis began to have the unpleasant sensation of being an adoring subject—waiting on Cor's every word like an obedient lapdog. What was most unsettling, though, was that his normal hotheaded softhearted temperament had disappeared; he was as polite as considerate as ever, but there was a distinct chill in his demeanor now that Aravis had never felt from him before. He comforted Ragna when she wept, but was perfunctory and soon told her to clean herself up; he was considerate enough to call an early halt the first few days after the funerals, but made sure everyone knew they would have to ride harder later to make up for the lost time.

One night, Aravis woke to a prickling feeling on her face. She looked around for a few moments, dazed and disoriented, before she realized that tiny snowflakes, dancing in the light of the campfire, were drifting softly from a starless sky. Winter was coming, she realized with a shiver.

Cor huddled by the fire, his sword glinting in the light. Aravis shook the accumulated dusting of snow off her blankets and cloak as she rose and went over to the fire and sat beside him on the fallen log he had perched on. Nothing of his face was visible but the tip of his nose and the gleam of his eyes, but she looked at him for a long time, waiting for acknowledgement. None came. Rather than speak, though, she sighed and leaned against him, gazing into the fire and wondering what he saw in it.

Snow had blanketed the landscape by the time the faint form of Shadesport darkened the horizon. When they saw it, the fourteen of them heaved heavy sighs of relief; even the horses' ears pricked up, and they hurried forward, the powdery thin snow puffing up behind them like little clouds.

"We must be very careful now," Cor announced as they drew near the city gates. It was much less busy than Kostis, though it was a bigger settlement; the weather must be keeping the regular stream of visitors away. "We aren't as safe here as we were in the north."

"Why?" Ragna asked, her breath issuing in thin, quick streams of smoke from her mouth.

Cor hardly glanced at her. "Shadesport is a slavers' den. Don't go anywhere alone, any of you. We'll rest here tonight, stock up, and then make the final push for Castle Zohra."

Hana looked quickly at Aravis and moved her shaggy workhorse closer to Inga. "I trust you to keep me safe," she said nervously. "I've never been in a city this big before…"

"You never really get used to them," Aravis replied with a grim shrug. "Stick close, would you—women are never safe in places like this."

Hana and Ragna turned identical shades of grey, and Aravis noticed as they passed through the gates that she was trailing a gaggle of frightened women behind her. And yet, for all of Shadesport's ill reputation, the main streets seemed as benign as Anvard. Merchants in cloaks and scarves of festive colors made a cheery contrast to the cold greys and whites of an old city in winter; one hawker pressed tiny tin cups of steaming cider into their hands as they passed by, calling out for them to return and buy a larger batch, quite the bargain don't you know.

Cor secured them one large room at the Hog's Head, an inn just off the high street whose barmaid was fat and jovial. The room itself was at the top of a long flight of stairs, but it was warm enough and had a large window that opened up over an empty, quiet alleyway.

"Let's go out into the city," Aravis said to the other women as she spread her bedroll out on the worn wood floor. Cor and Corin and Darrin had already gone out to start purchasing supplies, and the older men were yawning and looking set to take naps. "It would do us some good, I think, to get a bit of different society."

"Oooh, 'ow dangerous," Ragna squeaked, clutching her scarf to her mouth. "We'll get _abdu'ted_ and sold in'ter slav'ry…"

"Not if we stick together," Aravis replied.

"But it's such a _large_ city," Hana wavered.

Janey nodded, and Findora, who was ostensibly rubbing out a stain on her borrowed cloak, was biting her lip.

"It's really not," Aravis answered with a slight laugh. "Nowhere near as big as Anvard."

This did not seem to help.

She sighed. "I used to live in Tashbaan, you know—the biggest city in the west. I can easily manage it."

They still didn't look convinced.

"Look," Aravis wheedled, "Christmas is coming soon. You ought to be thinking of what to give Cor, at the very least—your potential husband. I know you _must_ need something from the market—paper, or just a new needle perhaps."

Hana and Janey looked at each other.

"Ram?" Aravis called.

The big man, who had somehow contorted himself to fit on the windowsill and was watching the alley, turned to look at her. "Yes, milady?"

"Will you come with us to the market? We have some shopping to do."

He unfolded his long legs and stood up. "Gladly. You have nothing to fear, my ladies…"

Janey giggled as he bowed deeply. "Oh…all _right_…let me get my cloak."

And so it was with tentative smiles that the five women, Ram in tow, swept down the stairs and out into the brisk air. It was rejuvenating for Aravis to be around strangers again: she found herself chatting easily with other market-goers, mostly women with baskets on their arms, as the other four women clustered nervously behind her. Feeling magnanimous, Aravis spent some of her precious pocket money on tankards of the deliciously spiced cider they had sampled earlier, and the hot brew warmed their fingers and loosened their nerves.

As Janey was showing Findora and Hana a particularly fine bolt of silk, though, Aravis shot a meaningful look to Ram and slipped off into the crowd. Buying gifts was so hard when she was being watched! The first purchase she made was of two pairs of woolen mittens: they were thickly knit with pretty shades of yarn, and Aravis had them wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of twine. She slipped the package under her cloak. The next gifts she bought were a bit more expensive: six sets of sturdy deerhide boots and woolen socks, just right for long days of walking in wet conditions.

That answered for most of the group, whose gifts she knew were only a show of her gratitude for their company and hard work. The gifts for Hana, Janey, and the twins, however, required a little more than that, a profound thanks for their friendship.

For Janey, she settled on a thick green cloak, as the woman had given hers to Findora and taken the ratty, moth-eaten spare. It was a simple gift, but Aravis knew she had an extra silver cloak pin somewhere that would suit Janey's coloring nicely.

For Hana, Aravis purchased a small leather volume with blank vellum pages. Having taught writing before, she knew just how invaluable a private journal was to the learning process; this she had done up in red flannel to protect it from the damp.

Corin was quite a bit easier: she got him what she had done every Christmas since they'd met—a small roll of uniquely textured fabric, which she would cut and sew up neatly so he could use it as bindings for his wrists and fingers when he boxed. She wasn't sure why he preferred her invention over the boxing gloves King Lune always gave him, but he asked for it—and got it—every gift-receiving opportunity he could.

Cor was easiest, but perhaps only because she had decided on it long ago. First, a new set of pencils, as he had worn his nearly down to stubs; then—and this took her quite a while to find—a plain cream tunic, a pair of long embroidery needles, and several spools of thick gold and silver thread. This she had wrapped very tightly and inconspicuously in butcher's paper.

When she returned to the main group, it was to find Ragna and Hana quite panicked. "I tried to tell them, milady," Ram said apologetically, but it was all Aravis could do to reassure them that nothing was wrong and that she had only stopped to look at a few books. The restorative nature of the bustling marketplace was gone now, however, and they trudged back to the inn, cold and anxious again.

Cor, Corin, and Darrin hadn't yet returned, so Aravis stowed her prizes in the bottom of her satchel and waited for Ram to doze off by the window before pulling out the tunic and thread she had purchased for Cor.

"What are you about to do?" Hana asked her curiously as she settled by the fire and threaded a needle.

"You'll see at Christmas," Aravis answered archly, and set to stitching.

The design was clear in her head, having formulated itself several weeks ago as she lay gazing at the stars. If there was one thing she missed of Calormene culture, it was the beautifully embroidered clothing they wore; nothing like the practical wool and cotton prized by the Archenlanders. Indeed, the first sewing skill she had learned as a girl was the backstitch. He was nearly twenty: it was high time for Cor to own one of the handsome tunics she had often seen in her father's receiving chambers or in the fashionable houses in Tashbaan.

The door creaked open just as she finished working the outline of the collar, and she jumped, jabbing her finger with the needle, and managed to shove the thing into her satchel before Corin, his arms laden with packages, came stomping into the room, Cor and Darrin close behind.

"—And I was saying how that was a simply _ridiculous_ price—oh, hello, did we wake you?"

Rhys and Borran were rubbing their eyes and looking for the source of the disturbance.

"Sorry," Corin continued on. "Well, it's just about dinnertime anyway, so up and at 'em, men…"

They stowed the packages in the proper places and loosened their scarves and cloaks. "Rosie is ladling up a fine-looking stew in the barroom," Corin said brightly. "Shall we?"

"Who's Rosie?" Hana asked.

"Barmaid," Corin answered, cheeks pink. Aravis couldn't tell if it was from the cold or something else.

"Oh," said Hana.

Aravis sucked the blood off her sore finger and gingerly donned her boots, holding the offending digit out so it didn't smear on her clothes. Cor was waiting for her to finish, and she blew out the last candle and hurried out the door so he could close and lock it with the heavy key the innkeeper had given them. "Did you find everything you needed in the market today?" she asked him as he fiddled with it.

He shrugged halfheartedly. "Enough."

"I bought some of that cider they gave us. Quite good. Did you get some?"

"No."

She bit her tongue as they descended the stairs into the long, dark corridor that stretched between the dark alley and the dining room; the sounds of laughter and conversation told her that dinner was in full swing. "Are you all right, Cor?" she asked after a moment.

"Yes, why?"

"You've been…rather quiet lately."

"I haven't."

Aravis caught his arm as he went to pull the door open. "_Cor_."

"Don't—" He tried to tug away, but she held on tighter.

"You haven't been yourself lately," she plowed on. "I'm worried about you."

"_Worried_?" he snapped suddenly, breaking free of her grasp. "Why? I clearly have _everything_ under control—"

She bristled at his tone despite her best intentions. "Oh, _that's _nice. Don't mind me trying to show you some friendly support."

"_I'm_—"

"You know, you really disappoint me sometimes, Cor," she went on heatedly. "You've been quite cold since Nim and Brynwen died—like you're not even here—what _happened _to you?"

He glared at her for a long moment, then turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off down the corridor and out into the cold darkness of the alleyway. Aravis stood in the silence he left behind, fuming. So much for a friendly chat—

As she ran the last few seconds over and over in her head, seething about Cor's rudeness, though, something clicked. Had the flickering torchlight tricked her, or had she seen the glimmer of a tear in the corner of one of Cor's angry blue eyes? She bit her lip, considered ignoring it and going in to dinner, and then turned and went out into the alleyway. It was dark and empty, save for a thin tomcat that skittered nervously past the door. "Cor?" she called, her breath freezing in the cold air.

There was no response. She stood with one hand on the doorknob and listened intently, but there was no sound save for the subversive rumble of a city after dark, so she sighed and went back inside.

The men were well into their mugs of ale by the time she reached the table, and the red-faced Rosie soon had a tankard of Aravis's own plunked in front of her. It was spiced and cold, and it tingled pleasantly as it went down; Corin grinned at her with a line of froth on his lips. "You give Cor a good talking-to?" he asked.

"Hardly," she answered coolly. "He's above all that now, it seems."

"He could use some of Rosie's ale!" Corin blustered. "And her good cheer, mind you…"

Aravis watched the barmaid absently. The woman was by no means young, but one would never have guessed by how indiscriminately she flirted. "High-class company, I can tell," she yawned.

Rosie came over and set a trencher of thick stew in front of her with a brazen wink.

"Thank you," she said dryly.

Corin drowned his snorting laughter in his tankard, and Hana looked affronted. "_Really_," she said.

"Oh, come _on_, now," Corin said, looking at her with a crooked grin. "You were a barmaid once—don't say you never flirted with a customer—"

"_Once_," Hana reminded him sternly. "And no. My cooking was good enough that I didn't need to sell _myself_ in order to get rid of it…"

Aravis had to laugh. "You don't really seem to be the flirting type, after all, Hana."

"_Never_?" Corin repeated.

"A lady never flirts," Hana answered.

Corin laughed so hard he began to choke, and Ram reached over Hana and pounded on his back until he had regained his breath.

"I don't see what's so funny," Hana said, cross now. "Tell him, Aravis!"

Aravis merely looked at her over her own tankard.

Corin continued to laugh as Hana gaped across the table at Aravis. "You—but—_a lady_—"

"You'll soon learn," Aravis answered with dignity, "that being a lady sometimes means flirting very much, indeed. You can't bargain like a man—you haven't any money of your own to buy what you want—so you have to use what wiles you were born with."

"Aravis—is _quite_ the skilled flirt," Corin said, wiping his eyes. "Father always said she could charm the skin off a snake if she tried."

Hana looked dubious.

"I have no doubt you'll get the chance to see me at it someday," Aravis sighed. "At Castle Zohra, mark my words—that Viscount Sidrat will be a grasping old man, I can just feel it."

Hana shuddered.

"I still can't believe you've never flirted," Corin plowed on, looking at Hana intently as if trying to read her mind. "Never? _Ever_?"

"I never said I've never flirted."

Aravis choked a bit on her ale.

"What?" Hana said. "You asked me if I'd ever flirted with a _patron_—no, of course not."

"But you _have_ flirted," Corin said slowly.

She arched an eyebrow and looked away.

"My meek little mouse!" Aravis exclaimed. "Oh, who was it? Some strapping young man in Wolfdell, I bet…"

Hana didn't answer.

"Well?" Corin pressed. "What happened? Did it work? Are you any good at it?"

"I'm quite fine at it, thank you," Hana said coolly. "He is just too _stupid_ to notice." She pushed her ale away. "This place is giving me quite the headache. I'm going to bed."

"What was that about?" Aravis asked once Hana had left the room.

Corin shrugged and stared down into the depths of his ale, suddenly sober. "Dunno. Probably Cor."

More to change the subject than anything else, Aravis said, "I wonder if he's come back yet."

"What? Where's he gone?"

"Out," Aravis said with a shrug. "To clear his head."

"We can only hope," Corin said with a bitterness that startled her.

"Right," she said slowly. "Well, I'm going to bed, too. Goodnight."

"'Night," he replied, and turned to the others, whose conversation was still going strong.

Aravis looked out into the back alley as she headed back to their room. A light dusting of snow had fallen while they ate, but no footprints other than those of small animals marred the white surface. Perhaps he had already come back…?

The only person in the room was Hana, and she jumped a little as Aravis came in. "Are you all right?" Aravis asked, crossing to the window to look down into the alley one last time.

"Yes," Hana said. There was a slight thickness in her voice that made Aravis wonder if she'd been crying, but she decided to say nothing.

"Cor's been gone for a while now," she said, resting her head on the windowpane. She expected to see him shuffle around the corner at any moment, cold, wet, and hungry. "I'm getting rather worried…"

"If it clears his head, more the better," Hana said bitterly.

Aravis looked at her in surprise. "He may be a churl sometimes, Hana, but you and Corin should be nicer to him. He is trying, I'm sure."

Hana huffed a sigh and laid down in her bedroll, signifying that the conversation was over. Aravis rolled her eyes and turned to gaze out the window again. He had to be back soon. Hadn't he?

* * *

_A/N: I still live! Sorry for the delay on this, my friends—schoolwork picked up really fast, and I've been having trouble with my Crohn's again, so it seems that if I do have a spare moment to write, I'm just too tired or in too much pain. Don't worry, though—my quality of life is much better than it was in August, and my docs have been great. I'm going back in a week or so to get checked up and hopefully more meds to control my symptoms!_

_Anyway, a happy belated Thanksgiving to all my American readers, and a happy early Sinterklaas to all my Dutch readers! (Woo!) I will certainly update again before Christmas, so I'll leave those greetings until then. _

_Enjoy!_

_~Sushi_


	46. Chapter Forty-Six

_Chapter Forty-Six_

The next morning, most of the men woke up with splitting headaches and eyes that were raw and bloodshot. Aravis had little sympathy for them: they had come up to bed long after she and Hana had dropped off to sleep, and in their drunken stupor tripped over the two sleeping women, one after the other. Sure enough, when Aravis looked at her arm in the cold light of morning, there was a perfect purple bruise exactly the size of Corin's left heel.

No one was in a mood for negotiating that day after that incident. "What are we going to do about Cor?" Aravis asked the room as the men stumbled about, shoving their things back into satchels with their eyes half-closed.

"You needn't shout," Corin groaned, wincing.

"I'm not shouting," Aravis answered tersely. "But I _am_ concerned that none of you seem to be at all upset at the fact that Cor hasn't come back to the room!"

"I think I saw 'im a bit earlier," Romith said with effort.

Aravis rounded on him. "Really?"

Romith furrowed his brow. "Well, no, not really. But 'e _looked_ like 'is highness."

Dor reached over and slugged Romith hard on the arm, but the effort made him lose what little balance he still had, and soon he was curled up on the bed again with a pillow over his eyes.

Aravis rolled her eyes. "I'm really quite worried," she told Darrin, catching the man by his sleeve as he painfully rolled up his blanket. "Cor's never gone this long."

"He did get separated from us in the foothills last month," Darrin answered blearily. "But he made his way back to us, didn't he? I wouldn't worry. He know where we're going, and he can catch us up later when he's slept off his drink somewhere."

"Oh, very nice," Aravis snapped, the short fuse on her temper burning quickly. "I resent your implication that the crown prince is a drunkard of the likes of you."

"I'm just telling you what I suspect. Prince Cor is a red-blooded young man, and chances are he had a few too many drinks and wenches and feels like his skull has been cleft in two. He'll recover and catch us up, I am quite sure."

Aravis's blood boiled, and she massaged the tender spot where she'd been trodden on in the night. Yes, Cor was a young man no different than others, and _perhaps_ she had seen him rather deep in his cups on occasion, but the thought of his lanky frame stretched out on the flea-infested dirty mattress of a local brothel made her feel ill. It shouldn't, and she knew it—most noblemen either kept mistresses or frequented bawdyhouses, and there was no reason Cor should be any different, but it didn't feel satisfactory enough.

"He knew when we meant to leave," she said to Ram, biting her lip in thought. "He would never be so late, even if it meant dragging himself back in the middle of the night."

"Lord Darrin and Lord Rhys seem convinced he will meet up with us later," Ram answered. He paused in oiling his blade. "You do seem quite worried."

"We had…a bit of a row last night," she admitted. "In the corridor, right before the hall. I saw him go out into the alley, but he never came back, did he?"

"What do you think might've happened, then," Ram asked, "if you don't think he is sleeping off his ale right now?"

Aravis wrung her hands. "I've just got this awful feeling," she admitted. "He was saying something about the slavers here…and he's strong, but look, his sword is still braced against the wall where he left it last night. He wouldn't be able to fend off a whole group of them."

"Why would they want him?"

"Have you _looked_ at him, Ram? He's just what Calormenes are fond of: blonde, tall in stature, strong, and young. Slavers can sell Archenlanders to practically anyone at a pretty price. I've seen it done."

Ram finished his oiling and slid his sword back into its sheath. "I see what you mean. But I'm afraid that, until we convince the others, there's not much we can do."

"We could split up, couldn't we?"

"And do what? Get more of us lost or pickpocketed or taken into slavery?"

Aravis bit her tongue hard to keep herself from uttering a few words she really shouldn't even know.

"Besides," Ram went on as he began to pull warm layers on over his tunic. "Give them a day or two to sober up, and they'll be more open to other suggestions."

"'Other suggestions'? _This is the high prince_—"

"Aravis!"

Corin's voice was testy, and she turned to see him glaring at her. "What?"

"We're all ready to leave, and you stand gadding about…"

Aravis huffed a sigh and gathered up her things with as much annoyance as she could muster in each movement. The company was silent as they went down to the stables to collect their horses. Even Inga seemed subdued throughout the tacking process, standing with her head down as Aravis ran a brush over her withers and only grunting once when the bridle got caught on her ears. "At least _you're_ in a good humor," Aravis murmured, rubbing a bit of dust from the white patch on Inga's forehead. The creature nosed her face and blew hot breath against her hand in response.

But the question looming over everyone's heads was that of Raider. Cor's magnificent bay destrier stood patiently in his stall, head poking out into the hall and ears pricked forward, waiting for his rider to get him ready. When he spotted Aravis approaching him, he whickered and lowered his head for a scratch, gentle as a child's pony.

"Leave him," Rhys said firmly.

Aravis looked at him as she let the gelding mouth up a bit of sweetgrass from her palm. "Cor wouldn't have left him here on purpose," she said firmly. "I'm telling you, he—"

"Leave him," Corin repeated shortly, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "He'll come back in a few hours and will need some way to catch up with us."

Aravis scoffed in indignation. "So we should leave a blooded war horse at an inn in _Shadesport_, on the off chance that Cor comes back within the next day? I hardly think so. Raider is coming with us."

Darrin came up with his hands out as though to pull Aravis away, but Inga laced her ears back and snapped her teeth at him until he backed away.

"Fine," Corin shot. "But don't expect any help from me."

"When do we ever?" Hana snapped back. She went up to Aravis and took Inga's lead, her jaw sticking out in a stubborn look. "I'll help you get Raider ready, Aravis."

"And I," Janey cut in, bustling over with a curry comb and rub rag.

"This is Raider's tack, yes?" Findora said, holding up a bridle.

The four of them looked at Ragna. The girl caught her breath when she noticed their expectant stares, but one look at Corin and she quailed. "'is 'ighness knows best, surely," she squeaked.

"High praise, coming from her," Hana muttered, tying Inga out of the way so Janey could lead Raider out of his stall.

Aravis, despite her relief that the women, at least, were on her side, was once again startled by Hana's sudden antagonism towards Corin. As she quickly rubbed Raider down with the rag, she saw Corin, two spots of color high on his freckled cheeks, try unsuccessfully to catch Hana's eye. When he had failed for the third time, he dropped his gaze and turned away, barking at Romith to hurry up with the pack ponies. Aravis had been in enough rows with the princes to know what one looked like—but before she could ask Hana about it, Findora was helping her saddle Raider up and buckle luggage to his back, and Corin was mounting up.

As they rode through the streets of Shadesport, still dark and somewhat empty as the markets hadn't opened yet, Aravis nearly cricked her neck, so quickly she was glancing around for a glimpse of that familiar red-gold head. Once, Raider nickered, and her heart stopped for a moment, but then she realized that he had caught the scent of the sweetgrass she had stored in one of Inga's saddlebags. Her disappointment was an almost physical ache as she reached back and gave him another handful.

It felt strange riding out of the city and onto the powdery plains without Cor. A small part of Aravis was screaming in anguish, lamenting its losses as if Cor had already joined Nim and Brynwen in the cold cairns on the mountain. A distant shout rang across the landscape, and Aravis had twisted Inga and Raider completely around and was about to kick Inga into a gallop when she realized it was just the noise of a farmer whose cart had lost a wheel.

They camped early that night on Ram's insistence: if Cor were trying to catch up to them, he would need time to do so. Aravis took the first watch, and she spent the remaining daylight staring intently at the direction in which they had come, hoping desperately for the shiver of movement or a distant halloo. None came, and soon night had fallen completely, blanketing the landscape in dusky darkness. More to busy her hands than anything else, Aravis pulled the book of fairytales out of her satchel and moved closer to the fire. The words blurred and slid in and out of focus, so she flipped through the pages, gazing at the lush illustrations that went along with each story. Towards the end of the volume, the familiar story of the girl who fell in love with the horrible beast was accompanied by a painting done in rich color; the girl, her long dark curls tumbling down her back, stood in a rose garden with the beast in his human form, clasped tight against his chest. Aravis gazed at the illustration for a long time, absently running her fingers over the paint to trace the ridges of the beast-prince's golden hair, to feel the brushstrokes that made up the girl's ecstatic face.

"What's that?"

Aravis started and slammed the book shut as Ram came and sat by the fire, holding his hands out to the warmth. "Nothing," she said, her face feeling strangely warm, and slipped the book under her cloak.

Ram was quiet for a moment. "Have you been developing a plan, then?" he asked in a low voice.

"A—a plan—"

"The others will never elect to go back to Shadesport to find him. You've realized this by now."

She nodded mutely.

"And I fear that…if an attempt is to be made, it must be done abruptly."

"What are you saying?" she asked.

Ram looked up, the light of the fire making his red beard glow like flame. "You'll have to do it alone, milady. The danger here is greater—I can't help you."

Aravis watched him in silence for a long time. "You are an enigma, Ram," she said at last. "And yet, somehow I trust you."

"You have no good reason to."

"And perhaps that is why I do."

He nodded briefly. "Then you'll believe me when I tell you you must make your move soon."

"Yes."

"I have some supplies I can give you, but not much."

"I'll think of a plan."

Ram gave her a piercing look, his eyes eerily dark against his face. "You understand that this is no longer mere diplomacy, Lady Aravis?"

She gave a perfunctory nod.

"You are now playing a very dangerous game. Men older and wiser than you have judged it wrong and paid with their lives."

"I understand," she lied.

He watched her steadily for a long moment. "Right, then. Off to bed you go."

Her body obeyed immediately, and she lay down in her tent with the book still under her arm. The leather was soft and smooth under her fingers.

_"'__You owe me three stories, after all.'_

_"'They'll be paid back with interest.'"_

And, just like that, a plan burst into Aravis's mind. It was vague and unformed, to be sure, but it would come together sooner or later, and she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: Guys, I am so very sorry for the delay! I so appreciated your sweet get well wishes over the Christmas holiday – I was in and out of the hospital all of break for testing and treatment, and when I was home I couldn't bear to pull myself away from my family long enough to get any decent writing done. Now I'm settled back in at school, though, and the month of January will be pretty light in terms of work, so I'll try to update a little more often to make up for the last few weeks. Thanks again! ~SH_

_PS: Don't forget! The third anniversary of the Fledgling Year is JANUARY NINE! "Like" Schmo and Sushi on Facebook for information on some cool contests and quasi-giveaways! _


	47. Chapter Forty-Seven

_Chapter Forty-Seven_

Aravis woke with her plan fully formed, as though her brain had been working at it all night while she slept. She lay bundled up for a few minutes, running the risks and dangers over and over in her head, but she felt oddly at peace with it, and got up with determination.

The plan hinged on her acting abilities and Inga's fortitude. She only had a few gold coins to her name, but she was a woman; there were plenty of ways she could scrape up a few more if need be. Mulling over her list of supplies, she dressed warmly, but took pains not to look like she was up to something.

She did feel a little bad when she ducked out of her tent and saw the men giving her sheepish glances. Most of them, by the looks of it, had slept off their hangovers and now felt rather remorseful for their treatment of each other. She collapsed her tent and, as she was folding it back up, said slowly, "Cor hasn't come back yet, has he?"

The general silence told her he hadn't.

"There's still time to turn around," she said calmly. "We're not far from Shadesport."

Rhys stood up abruptly. "Really, Your Highness," he said sharply to Corin, who was standing with his back to them. "Will you suffer this?"

"Suffer what?" Aravis said, indignant despite herself.

"This blatant insolence," Rhys spat back at her. "Lady Aravis has been allowed to step beyond the realm of what is appropriate for her sex for far too long, Your Highness."

"Oh, _really_," she scoffed.

Corin turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. "Could you two just—_stop_ _arguing_—Rhys, Aravis is not about to take your lordship away, so stop fretting."

Aravis just barely resisted giving Rhys a smug look, but Corin wasn't finished yet.

"And Aravis—_do_ stop harping on about Cor. He's a grown man, but the way you carry on, you'd think him a child…"

He wandered off and started loading up his horse. The other men followed, but Aravis found herself rooted to the spot, stung to the bone by Corin's rebuff. Certainly, she wasn't as close to him as she was to Cor, but he had always been a good friend, a lighthearted breath of fresh air she appreciated, especially after rowing with Cor. He had rarely treated her so dismissively.

"Have you got everything?" Ram asked her helpfully, handing her bedroll to her.

She took it and nodded automatically, then realized the implication of his words. "Not quite—would you mind helping?"

"To the best of my ability," he said firmly with a keen look. Aravis nodded, and he helped her saddle Inga for the day's riding.

The details of the plan fell together like puzzle pieces as the day wore on. These hypothetical situations would only get her so far, though—whatever happened once she got there, was in the thick of things, would require all her cleverness. What if Cor wasn't there? What if someone else had bought him? What if the price on his head was too high? _What if, what if, what if_?

Just like that, it was nighttime. Dor took the first watch, and as the others drifted off to bed, Aravis felt the stirrings of fear in the pit of her stomach. What if? It would be so much easier to believe that Cor was suffering the hangover to end all hangovers, but all she could think about was the slaver's lash snapping over his freckled shoulders, already scarred from his years under Arsheesh. The idea choked her.

She rose up and, bidding goodnight to those who were still up, went into her tent. It was dark as pitch inside, but she sat on the hard canvas floor and ran her fingers over the leather cover of Cor's book, feeling the handtooling marks on the spine.

The hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. Once or twice, she found herself nodding off, but each time she jerked herself awake and rubbed her face with the rough side of her mittens. Eventually, she heard murmured voices, the rustle of a tent, and knew that the watch had changed. She crawled out of her tent. Immediately, Ram strode over and collapsed it with hardly a sound; the canvas that usually snapped and rubbed noisily against things slid into its folds with soft whispers, and he soon had it packed away in its cover.

Inga was wide awake and alert when Aravis approached her. Much to her relief, she stood still and quiet as Aravis tacked her up as quietly as possible; it even seemed to her that Inga lowered her head and opened her mouth so the bridle would slide on silently. "You know what's happening, don't you?" Aravis found herself whispering. "You're a clever beast, I'll give you that."

Inga flicked her ears in response.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of canvas, and Aravis and Ram spun around just in time to see Hana step out of her tent, rubbing her hands together. They all froze, staring at each other.

After a long moment of silence, Hana dropped her hands and whispered, "I'm coming."

"No," Aravis said immediately. "It's not safe."

"You're going to get him back, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Ram shushed them, and Hana strode over to Aravis and seized Inga's reins, her little plump face set in a stubborn expression Aravis had only rarely seen. "And how is a young woman in a slaver's den any less dangerous than two?"

Aravis stammered out a response, but Hana waved it off. "I'm not interested in the adventure, Aravis, you know that. I want Cor back as much as—well," she broke off, looking a bit more Hana-like, "_almost_ as much as you do. But what I _really_ want…"

"It's because of Corin, isn't it?" Aravis said, starting to understand.

"It's because of Corin's horribleness, yes," Hana answered, her chin jutting out. "He's been so bloody awful to m—you lately."

"My plan doesn't have room for a second person," Aravis wavered. As she said it, though, she started to realize that perhaps, if Hana could play the part well enough, a second person might just make it that much stronger.

"Tell me," Hana said.

Ram went about collecting the rest of Aravis's things and loading Inga up. Aravis watched him for a moment, then sighed. "It could be dangerous."

Hana hesitated for a split second. "I don't care. I want to come along."

"_Really_ _quite_ dangerous."

"What would you have me do?"

Aravis watched her keenly for a moment. "You'd have to act a part."

"I could try."

"A rather demeaning part."

"What could be more demeaning than being a innkeeper's daughter amongst lords and ladies?"

Aravis hesitated. "You'd…you'd have to play a slave. …_My_ slave."

Hana was silent for a long time. Aravis knew she'd touched a sore spot; as much as the Archenlanders tolerated the slave trade because it kept their Calormene neighbors happy, they despised the idea of being slaves themselves. She had once heard that it stemmed from the First Man, Frank I, who traced his lineage back to an enslaved people she knew only as the Airish.

To her credit, though, Hana merely lifted her chin. "If it will help us find Cor."

"I hope it will."

Ram broke in. "You must take Raider then, milady. It would be no good for a slave girl to ride into the city on a finer horse than her mistress's."

"You're right," Aravis said, catching Hana's askance look at Inga's long yellow teeth. "You'll have no trouble with her, I promise."

Hana, who didn't look entirely convinced, nodded slightly and went about gathering her things, tiptoeing past the other tents with urgency. Ram helped Aravis saddle up Raider and transfer her things to him. "Please be good," Aravis whispered in Inga's ear as she buckled Hana's satchel to the saddle.

Aravis was preparing to swing up onto Raider when Ram stopped her. "Be cautious," he said, holding out a small leather sack. "More cautious than you were when we were all there."

She nodded and took the pouch curiously. It clinked and jangled as she shook it, hinting at its contents of bottles and coins. "Oh, no, Ram, I can't—"

"You'll need it," Ram said bluntly.

"But it's your personal money—"

"And medicine for His Highness. Just take it. The fate of the kingdom rests on the shoulders of that young man, and you've got one chance to get him back. Just make sure he stays alive."

"I—"

"You'll understand some day. Now go, or you'll waste precious daylight."

Aravis hesitated for only a moment before swinging up on Raider. It felt strange, being atop the tall gelding without Cor in front of her, but the destrier responded immediately to her touch on the reins and turned away from the fire, Inga and Hana at their side.

The thin snow muffled the horses' hoofprints, but Aravis kept them at a walk until they were a good distance from the camp, just in case. When the fire was no more than a flickering pinprick on the horizon, though, she wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck so her hood would not fly back, motioned to Hana, and kicked Raider into a smooth canter. They were a full two days' ride from Shadesport, and a lot could happen in two days.

* * *

Hana and Aravis rode through the night. A few times, Aravis found herself nodding off, but the horses went on at a steady pace either way, as if they knew instinctively where to go. At high noon, or close to it, they stopped to eat, and Hana and Aravis curled up inside a tent together and slept until nightfall, when they collapsed their makeshift camp and headed out again. It was Aravis's intention to get to Shadesport shortly after the gates opened that morning, so she could put her plan into action right away. It would require finesse, dignity, and good breeding, something she wouldn't be able to display without a decent bath.

They rode into the city that morning with no trouble; Aravis guided Raider behind a troupe of traveling peddlers, and slipped past the notice of the city guards. "Where are we going now?" Hana asked as Aravis turned Raider down an alley.

"Right now, you aren't going anywhere," Aravis replied, dismounting.

"What?"

Aravis began rummaging through her satchels, pulling out all but her finest frocks. Her small purse of coins she slipped into the bigger pouch Ram had given her. "Stay here and watch the horses," she instructed Hana. "Here, take my sword."

Hana gingerly took the proffered weapon. "Where are you going?"

"To the market. I'll be back later."

Without waiting for Hana to protest, Aravis hurried out of the alley and merged into the growing market crowd. Her first order of business would be to sell her traveling clothes. Though they were utilitarian and sparse, they were still woven and sewn by Anvardian clothiers and therefore of fine quality: they would fetch a good price, if brought to the right booth. Sure enough, it was not long before she had traded the lot for a heavy purse of silver.

Next, she made her way uptown to the markets she knew would carry the goods aristocrats sent their servants to purchase. From an old crone in the shadow of a bell tower she bought a few gauzy gowns that were out of style but mostly in one piece; it would serve for her purposes. At another stall, she got a length of golden yarn bedecked with red tassels; the product was shoddy and a bit kitschy, but once again, it would serve.

It was nearly lunchtime when she returned to the alleyway. Hana leapt to her feet when she saw her. "I was just starting to wonder," she said anxiously, her face paler than usual.

"You needn't have worried," Aravis said. "Here, I bought you a gown. Will this fit?"

Hana eyed the thin material skeptically. "It's…not quite what I'm used to…"

"It shouldn't be. This is what a barbarian slave might wear in Tashbaan."

Hana looked a bit affronted at being called a barbarian slave, but she took the item and quickly shed her thick woolen frock and trousers. "It fits," she said, teeth chattering.

"Put your cloak back on," Aravis said as she traded out her outfit for the silken purple mass she had chosen. "And I'll do your hair in a moment."

"What should I do?" Hana said nervously a minute later as Aravis brushed the snarls and dirt out of her long blonde hair. "I won't know what to say."

"That's all right. You really shouldn't say anything, anyway. Let me do the talking and follow my lead."

"I'm good at that," Hana said meekly.

Aravis smiled a little and brushed out her own hair, then plaited it back and wrapped a blue scarf over her head and tucked it deftly in the fashionable Tashbaani way. "Now for the horses," she said. She pulled out the tasseled yarn and cut it in two with her sword, handing one piece to Hana. "This is a mere shadow of what our horses really look like, but it will fool the Archenlanders well enough, I think."

"Are we fooling them?"

Aravis began to wind the yarn around Raider's bridle and reins so the tassels waved sensuously with every move of his proud head. "Yes. I am a minor tarkheena, and you my maidservant, on our way to visit some cousins of mine in the north. A few days ago, my Archenlandian manservant ran away, stealing most of our things and requiring me to rely on the hospitality of Shadesport's upper class. As I am now in the market for a new slave, it only seems logical for us to appeal to the slavers for assistance."

Hana had a small grin on her face. "You're so clever, Aravis."

"_Mistress_," Aravis corrected teasingly.

"Mistress," Hana giggled. "What a word!"

"Right, now, horses, act noble," Aravis commanded, rubbing Raider's velvety nose. "To the slavers' district we go!"

* * *

_A/N: We've got some action coming up! Woohoo! On that note, the last contest of the anniversary celebrations is still going on over on Facebook. Play Guess The Kiss for a chance to have me (Sushi) email you personally with exclusive super-secret details about The Moment We've All Been Waiting For! _

_In other news, _The Fledgling Year_ is now Schmo and Sushi's highest-reviewed story! You guys surpassed _Sea Rat _just a few days ago. Wow! I am so honored and so blessed by your words of encouragement, advice, constructive criticism, and motivation. :) Thank you! ~SH_


	48. Chapter Forty-Eight

_Chapter Forty-Eight_

The slavers' district reminded Aravis of downtown Tashbaan. Men and women of varying skin colors and languages bustled about every which way; on each corner there were selling blocks, some occupied with pale-skinned specimens for purchase by the darker-skinned shopper; others had dark-skinned ones on display for the pale-skinned masters. Slavery was a universal institution, Aravis had often noted, and yet no race seemed keen to enslave those who looked like them.

At any rate, she was enough of a tarkheena to know that street-side sales were the chaff of the crop, so to speak: the real connoisseurs of flesh went to private auction houses and were given tours and the pick of the finest captives. So she and Hana went further into the district. The traffic parted for them, the fine look of their horses and Aravis's jewel-toned robes making pedestrians stare.

Soon enough, runners came out to meet them. These little boys were the tools of the trade in every port, small, lithe slave children used by the private auction houses to woo and entice potential customers to their thresholds with gifts. One house sent Aravis a bottle of fine wine; she waved a hand and the boy gave it to Hana, who took it bemusedly. They went on. Another house sent her two pairs of fine silk slippers, which she also waved to Hana (these would be useful as part of their costumes); yet another came out with a set of gold bangles, also potentially useful. On and on it went, until finally Raider halted before a boy of angelic coloring. Dressed in a warm-looking tunic of deep blue silk, the cherubic child bowed low before Aravis and held up a mahogany box. At a wave of her hand, he opened it, revealing a glittering necklace of fine green stones. This was no mere gift.

"Where do you come from?" she asked him sternly.

"Medis & Torial, milady."

"Show me."

The boy turned and scurried off into the crowd; Aravis and Hana followed him closely. Aravis held Raider's reins loosely, but her palms were damp with sweat. She wasn't _really_ lying about being a tarkheena—in fact, her only crime in that regard was not giving her rank due credit. At the same time, she knew slavers were dangerous folk, that finding oneself on the wrong side of a firm this influential could mean ruin. For a moment, she wavered.

"Do you think Cor is there?" Hana whispered.

His freckled, drawn face swam in front of Aravis's eyes; for a moment, he looked just as he had the last time she saw him, and then suddenly his face was bloodied and bruised, and one blue eye was swollen shut. Heat surged through her veins, and she wiped her palms on her skirt. "If he's not, we'll start over," she said firmly.

The boy brought them to a fashionable street. At first glance, it seemed like the business district of any large city, with whitewashed walls and a clean, cobbled road. It had the stench of slavery about it, though; Aravis's stomach turned over. Medis & Torial occupied the largest building on the street, its façade freshly painted and discreet; Aravis felt a whisper of hope as she looked at its smaller competitors.

They were met by a short, squat man of dubious heritage. He was not quite Archenlandian, but not quite Calormene, either, and his flat nose indicated a bit of island blood about him. Aravis instantly disliked him.

"My lady," he said grandly, sweeping an impossibly low bow. "You honor us with your presence."

Aravis straightened in the saddle and looked severely at him. "You'll do," she said with apathy.

"I am Lord Torial, of Medis & Torial," he said, sweeping another bow. "Villien Torial, at your service."

"You will address her ladyship with the proper respect," Hana said suddenly, her voice wavering with fear but otherwise quite firm. "You are speaking to Lasaraleen, tarkheena of Bakhtyar."

Aravis nearly forgot her place as she turned to look at the timid little innkeeper's daughter. How she had remembered those names, Aravis would never know—she remembered telling her about her friend Lasaraleen, and she mentioned the province of Bakhtyar once or twice, but she had never expected Hana to remember it!

Torial looked appropriately abashed. "My deepest apologies, most esteemed lady."

"Enough," Aravis said sharply as he went to bow again. "I am here on matters of business, not society. I require a new slave. As you see, I am under-protected. We were passing through the southern plains of your barbarous country when my manservant stole himself, along with many of my belongings."

"Heaven forbid he was one of ours," Torial said, turning a funny porridge color and wringing his hands.

"No. But I hear tell you have the widest…selection, from which I might find a replacement."

"But of course," Torial said, bowing again. "I beg you, esteemed lady, to come inside and find rest. You do not have lodgings yet, I hope?"

"I do."

"Ah, but are they as fine as what I have to offer? I beg you, esteemed lady, to stay in my home and enjoy true Shadesportian hospitality. You will want for nothing. My people will find replacements for all you have had stolen from you by your wayward slave, as a sign of our goodwill and guarantee that our slaves never escape. It is what we are known for."

Aravis tried very hard to look bored and indecisive. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "I accept your offer."

Torial looked fit to burst with excitement. "Yes. Yes, very good." He clapped, and a pair of island men in fine livery came to take the horses. One of them helped Aravis down, but Hana slid clumsily from Inga's back without any assistance.

"I am very particular about my slaves, Torial," Aravis said brusquely as she stalked inside, Torial and Hana scurried after her. The entry hall was warm and ornately decorated, but Aravis took no notice. "I want a very specific kind. You understand."

"Of course, my most esteemed ladyship. Medis & Torial are renowned for our training programs—we have slaves of all kinds molded to exacting specifications."

"You misunderstand me," Aravis interrupted. "I prefer to train my own slaves. I find northern slave houses to be softer than I would like. No—I want a fresh one. I assume you can still help me?"

Torial scuttled around her like a crab. "Of course, of course, your ladyship. We have only the finest specimens."

"Yes. I would like to see them."

"Ah," he said with a deep bow. "But you are tired, and your feet are stained with travel. You must rest, my esteemed lady, and enjoy our warm rooms and good food before we talk business."

Aravis found her cheeks flushing with consternation. _Damn it_, she thought angrily—she had overplayed her needy tarkheena card. "Hm," she said dismissively. "I require honeyed mead before supper. And my maid will share a room with me."

"As you wish," Torial said with a deep bow. "The footman will show you to your quarters."

A tall, ebony-skinned man in livery bowed low; Aravis and Hana followed him up a long flight of stairs. Aravis could hear Hana panting with fear and exertion, but she studied the layout of the manor house as quickly as she could without looking suspicious. The rooms the footman showed them to were near the staircase; this, at least was good. Aravis knew from experience that you put the guests you trust the least the farthest from the staircase: this way, they have to walk past the family's rooms to reach the stairs, and the creaking floorboards will give them away.

The room was beautiful, that much she had to admit. Two maids were busy fluffing up the mattress on the four-poster bed, but Aravis clapped sharply and said, "Begone. My maidservant will tell you what I require."

Hana blanched, and Aravis meaningfully tugged on her gown as she went to sit by the window. The maids looked to Hana expectantly as they edged toward the door. "Yes," Hana stammered. "My mistress requires boiled water—chilled—and clean frocks. They must be silk, cold-pressed and hung to loosen. They should be any color but purple."

The maids curtsied and fled the room, closing the door behind them. Hana locked it swiftly. "We've done it," she whispered triumphantly.

Aravis shrugged. "We've done part of it. Cor might not even be here."

"So what do we do now?"

"Keep playing the part. Calormenes are notoriously snobbish, so I doubt we'll be pressed for many details. I will talk to that man and see if they've got anyone who sounds like Cor, and he should give me a tour tomorrow."

"And if you see him?"

"I'll buy him."

"With what money?"

Aravis overturned her satchel, which had been brought up to their room already. "We have a little bit of money yet. Not lots—I had to spend quite a bit of it on our clothes." She counted out the coins that she had scraped from her meager collection and the bits that Ram had given her. "Yes—not nearly enough to pay for a high-end slave."

"This talk gives me the willies," Hana said with a shiver.

"You have to go out to the market," Aravis said. "I'll give you some things to sell. We might have enough for him, then."

Hana blanched. "M—me? Go out in the market?"

"Yes. How would it look if _I_ went in broad daylight? You'll be perfectly safe, Hana—all maidservants do their mistress' shopping."

"I'm glad I'm not really a maidservant, then," Hana grumbled.

Aravis ignored her and began sorting through her things. There were a number of trinkets she had collected over the last few months; they had all meant something to her at one point, but now, as she touched their cold surfaces and thought of Cor, they suddenly lost all value. She scooped everything up—a few baubles, the silk handkerchiefs her ladies-in-waiting had sent from Anvard, one or two of the gold bangles she had just gotten, and the glittering necklace from Medis & Torial—and pushed it into a sack, which she then handed to Hana. "Be careful," she said. "And quick."

Hana slipped out of the door, and Aravis locked it behind her. For a few minutes, she thought about lying down and trying to catch a few moments of sleep, but the moment her body touched the down mattress, she thought of Cor. It surprised her how physical the worry was; it had settled into her gut and sunk its claws deep into her stomach. He could be anywhere. Why did she come back here, taking her time looking, when he could easily have been forced into service on a whaling ship or a frigate, or mugged and left for dead, or downright murdered in the street? She should have taken Corin by the ear and forced him to go right to Anvard, where Lune would have taken charge and swept in with an army to find him.

It occurred to her vaguely that she and Cor hadn't been apart for this long since she had left for Calavar. Even when he was lost in the foothills on their way to Roscommon, he had only been gone for two days and a few hours, at most. Now, the room was growing darker as the clock ticked closer and closer to it having been three whole days since she last saw him.

The room was growing blurrier, too, and Aravis blinked a few times. "I'm not crying," she said aloud.

There came a quick tap on the door at that moment. Aravis sprang from the bed, thinking for a wild moment that it might be Hana with good news—she flung the door open and Hana slipped in, the satchel emptier but jingling with coins.

"I sold everything," she sighed.

"Any news of Cor?" Aravis blurted out.

Hana looked at her strangely as she removed her boots with a grimace. "No, why would there be?"

The disappointment was crushing. Aravis's stomach ached with fear and dread, and she went through the motions of hiding the money under the mattress with distraction.

"Are you all right?" Hana asked gently.

"Yes, fine," she lied.

Hana quietly used a handkerchief to brush the dirt of the street from the hem of her frock. "We'll find him. I know we will."

"Yes," Aravis replied aggressively, dropping the mattress back down onto its frame with unnecessary force. "And when we do, I'll give Corin and Rhys a piece of my mind, the bastards…"

"You mustn't blame Corin," Hana said after a moment. The words were not easy to say, Aravis could tell, but she plowed on. "He's…we had a row, you see. And he's still quite angry with me, I think."

"A row? About what?"

Hana shrugged. "I forget now. It was something ludicrous. But he's cross with me, and I'm cross with him, and I don't think he was really thinking about Cor at all. He'll feel so guilty if we were right."

"As well it should."

"He will."

A rap at the door startled them both, and Aravis flung herself onto the bed and arranged herself in a languorous pose as Hana went to open the door. The maids from before entered, their arms laden with frothy gowns, which Hana took before waving them out with an imperious hand.

"They say dinner's in an hour," she said after locking the door again.

"Finally," Aravis said, leaping up again. "I'm famished."

Together, they selected a fine green dress that came with the appropriate gold scarving, and Aravis scrubbed and brushed and pinched her face, neck, and shoulders into a healthy flush before stepping into the dress and having Hana help her with the scarf. "You'll probably eat in the kitchen, I'm afraid," she said, slipping on the gold bangles and silk slippers she had been given earlier.

"That's probably best," Hana answered. "You play your part, and I'll see what the staff has to say."

"Brilliant, Hana."

Hana grinned a little bashfully.

* * *

Dinner was a tedious affair. Both Torial and Medis were present, along with some of their "business associates," all burly men with thick knuckles and vague accents that Aravis couldn't place. She felt herself slipping into brainlessness, smiling vacantly and laughing at the appropriate moments, all the while running over her plan and wondering if Cor was going hungry. Suddenly, as they were finishing the dessert course, Torial turned to her.

"Now that you have rested, my esteemed ladyship, might we turn to business?"

Aravis's heart leapt to her throat, but she sipped some of her wine and smiled enigmatically. "If we must."

Torial poured himself more wine. "Excellent. May I ask what you are in the market for?"

"Only the finest flesh," Aravis answered, the words turning to ash in her mouth. "Archenlandian, of course."

"To be sure," Medis said with a nod.

Aravis swirled the wine in her goblet, working her fingers up and down the stem of the glassware. "My household is well known for the aesthetic appeal of my servants," she went on, giving Medis and Torial a coy look. "My servants must all be blonde and fair, pleasing to every taste my many guests might have."

"We understand completely, milady," Torial said. "And I assure you that we specialize in only the finest Archenlandian stock."

"So I hear. But my manservant must be replaced, and I was rather fond of him. I'm sure you will have a wide selection of men who fit his description?"

"I am quite sure. What do you require?"

"He must be tall and lean—a scholar or horseman, you understand. I want him blonde and blue-eyed, between the ages of 18 and 25, and strong enough."

"Ah, you have good taste, my lady."

"That's not all. I have a…shall we say, I have a preference for northern stock. You understand me, of course: fair-skinned and sturdy."

Torial and Medis were nodding readily, and Aravis's hopes began to rise. She decided to push them a little further. "The merchant I purchased my last manservant from had a wide selection of stock with those peculiar Archen skin markings—freckles, he called it. Oh, but I forget myself. That was a specialty auction house…surely you have none of the kind."

Torial and Medis looked worried. _Good_. "By no means, my dear lady," Torial hurried to assure her. "We keep records of all our stock's full physical appearance, and I assure you that we have a wide selection of stock with those markings."

"Oh?" she said, feigning surprise. "Well, I _am_ impressed."

"Indeed, my lady. If it please you, perhaps on the morrow we might prepare a short demonstration of what we have to offer?"

Aravis's wine burned her throat as she swallowed. It had been foolish, sure, but she had _so_ hoped he would have offered to bring her to the stockyards that night. She smiled. "Yes, I think that would be in order."

Torial nodded gleefully and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. And I assume money is no object—"

"Never assume," Aravis cut him off coolly. "I have no desire to spend exorbitantly on a piece of flesh that may or may not slip his bonds the moment I leave your city."

"Of course, of course," Torial murmured ingratiatingly. "Very wise. I am sure we can arrange something. This firm has a reputation for high quality products at _reasonable_ prices. A young, fair male—as you just detailed—would run no more than two hundred gilds, to be sure."

Aravis nearly shattered the glass she was still rolling in her fingers. _Two hundred gilds_? She was entirely positive that even with Ram's contribution, the coins under the mattress upstairs numbered no more than eighty, at most. She smiled slightly to keep her chin from trembling. "I see," she said neutrally. "Well, I shall inspect your stock tomorrow, good sirs, and make my decision then."

The men, understanding that she had just ended the conversation, rose from their seats as she stood up.

"Thank you for your hospitality tonight," she said airily. "Goodnight, gentlemen."

* * *

Hana helped her count the coins later that night after she had changed out of her dinner dress. The total was just as Aravis had feared: eighty-one gilds and a few sundry bits of change. Nowhere near enough to buy Cor back, if indeed he was even there.

"What did the servants say?" Aravis asked after she had had a chance to recover from the blow.

Hana sat up and paced across the room. "Nothing much, I'm afraid, they're all slaves themselves. I think they didn't trust me."

Aravis rested her head on the cold windowpane and imagined Cor out in the wind, shivering and hungry.

"But," Hana went on, "the cook did mention something about a 'new batch.' The latest 'haul' was a good one, she said, with plenty of fine specimens. Does that mean—"

"A new group of freshly enslaved men and women, yes," Aravis said, leaping from her seat by the window. "There's hope—what if Cor was in that batch?"

Hana nodded. "What would you have me sell now?"

Aravis was touched by Hana's frank offer of help. "Most of the gowns," she answered. "We'll be long gone, either way, before they realize they're missing."

Hana nodded briskly and set about filling a satchel with all but two of their dwindling supply of frocks. "I'll be back soon," she said, slipping from the room.

Aravis locked the door behind her and paced back and forth in front of the fire. She had to keep her cool tomorrow. It would do no good for her to give away her intentions if she saw him. On that note, she thought frantically, what if Cor recognized _her_ and gave it all away? She imagined him shouting her name across the pavilion, his voice echoing off the rafters and walls, and struggling mightily with his bonds. If there was a way to loosen them, he would find it, and she knew—she _just knew_—that if he managed to get to her, she would never be able to reject him.

"A good veil is in order," she said aloud, rubbing her arms as heat rushed through her body and up into her face. It was _essential_ that he not recognize her.

And yet, she thought as she gazed at herself in the cloudy mirror, she almost hoped he would.

_Tap tap._

The quiet knock on the door startled her more than it should have, and she went over to let Hana in. "Any luck?" she whispered.

Hana gave her a grim look. "Only twenty gilds for the lot."

Aravis felt like she had been punched in the stomach. "I see," she said.

"What are we going to do? We've sold all we can."

The words only rubbed salt in Aravis's wounds, and she walked slowly over to the bed and sank down on the mattress, looking at her satchel. "No, we haven't."

"Aravis, we've nothing but the clothes on our back and what we need to stay in disguise. A few handkerchiefs won't fetch nearly enough."

"No," Aravis said quietly. "But this might."

She reached into her satchel and drew out the flannel-wrapped package that had miraculously survived rain and snow.

Hana gasped. "Aravis, you can't—"

"This will fetch plenty," she said shortly, running her fingers over the volume's tooled leather binding and paging absently through it. "It's just a book."

"No," Hana repeated fiercely. "It's yours. Cor gave it to you. You—you _love _that book—"

"I'd rather have Cor than the book," Aravis retorted.

Hana shook her head. "I won't sell it."

"Then I will."

Hana gaped silently at her, but Aravis ignored her and gazed down at the pages open in her lap. She had turned to the illustration she had seen a few nights ago, the dark-haired maiden clasped in the arms of her fair beast-prince. "Bring me my cloak, please."

She donned it silently, pulling the hood over her face, and changed into sturdy boots. The book she put under her arm, its familiar weight comfortable and homey and heartbreaking, then left the room. Hana shut the door silently behind her.

The corridor was dark. Aravis hurried down it to the staircase; miraculously, the hall below was empty, and she pattered to the front door and slipped out unmolested. Though it was dark, the streets were still occupied, and she hurried in the direction of the marketplace, where there was sure to be a pawn shop somewhere. And yes, there it was: the sign creaked in the wind and the door was shut tight, but Aravis knew that if she knocked hard enough, someone would answer. Still, she hesitated outside. By the flickering light of the lamp nearby, she could see the beauty of the book with its illustrations and designs. With one smooth motion, she opened to the picture of the dark-haired maid and her handsome prince, tore the page out, slipped it into her pocket, and hammered on the door.

The process was quick enough. The man inside took his time looking at the book with a special glass, sucking his teeth until Aravis was ready to scream with frustration, but he then offered her ninety gilds, which she accepted immediately.

She wept as she walked back. It was not because she was sad—far from it—but rather, it was as if all the emotions bubbling up inside of her had finally reached their boiling point. She grieved her loss: she had just willingly discarded the one thing she owned to prove that she had once occupied a small portion of Cor's heart.

Hana said nothing to her when she slipped back into the room. Instead, she helped her out of her cloak and into her nightdress, and did not seem hurt when Aravis climbed into bed and turned away. As she puttered around the room, Aravis smoothed out the wrinkles she had put in the scrap she had torn from the book and gazed at it for a long time, wondering what on earth she'd gotten herself into.

* * *

_A/N: Wow! The Fledgling Year is now the longest Schmo and Sushi fic ever written, as well as the fic with the most reviews! Thanks, guys, again! :)_

_ Anyway, there's still time to enter the Guess the Kiss contest over on Facebook! If you're interested in entering but don't have a Facebook account, message me before 11:59 EST on Sunday, January 13 (today if you're reading this in the US), and I'll send you the link to the entry form. _

_ Here's a bit of Sushi trivia: did you know I have a tattoo of Aslan on my right shoulder? It's true. _

_ Enjoy the chapter!_


	49. Chapter Forty-Nine

_Chapter Forty-Nine_

After a long night, Aravis and Hana rose early and took breakfast in the room. Aravis felt a bit lightheaded—her restless sleep had been punctuated by nightmares involving endless chases and Cors with bloody faces—but Hana urged her to eat a few pieces of toast and marmalade, which settled her nerves and calmed her stomach. They dressed carefully, both donning jewel-toned headscarves that could be tucked across the nose and mouth—ostensibly to protect against the cold, but really to hide their faces from any recognition.

Torial met them in the hall. Aravis had been wondering briefly if he suspected anything, but he bowed low and kissed her hand and was all courteousness and lighthearted chatter as they climbed into the fine carriage that awaited them in the street.

"I went to the stockyards myself early this morning," he was saying as they rumbled over the cobblestones, "and hand-selected two dozen of our finest specimens."

"And they fit my description?"

"To the letter, my esteemed lady."

"I am most interested to see what you have in store for me, then."

"And if you are not pleased," he went on quickly, "do not hesitate to say so, for we have many more at hand."

"I won't, I assure you."

The carriage came to a halt in front of a soaring stone gate, which bore the Torial & Medis sign in bold letters. Aravis couldn't help but gaze up at it as Torial helped her from the carriage. "Most impressive," she said, fixing her scarf. Hana quickly did so, as well.

Torial bowed. "High praise from you, my lady."

He led them down a marble path, swept clean of any debris and polished until it shone. Aravis's slippers whispered over them. Soon they were striding across a broad pavilion, its grass brown for the winter but dotted with magnificent trees. A small gazebo had been constructed under one, and Torial helped her up the steps and directed her to a large, cushy seat that was filled with hot pans. A handsome ebony-skinned manservant offered her and Hana goblets of steaming hot chocolate, which they accepted readily.

"Shall I bring them out?" Torial asked. "I thought I might parade them first, before you inspect them personally."

"Do as you will," she answered.

Torial waved a hand, and she sat forward. One of Torial's cohorts came out of a low, squat building, leading behind him came a long line of young men. True to his word, Torial had chosen men that fit Aravis's description to a letter: tall, fair, and freckled. Several times, Aravis thought she saw Cor, but it always turned out to be another man who had a similar build or eyes the same shade of blue. The driver called out commands, and the men obeyed vacantly, showing her their flexibility, strength, and endurance.

"What do you think?" Torial asked. "Would you like to inspect them?"

Aravis knew she had no choice. Giving her drink to Hana, then, she got up and went out to meet the men, who stared straight ahead as if she was no more than a gnat. She lifted the shirts of a few of them to see their muscles, checked the teeth of one who met her glance, and gazed a little too long at one who looked particularly like Cor.

"You are not pleased," Torial said as she glanced over the last man.

"Mm," she answered neutrally. "They seem trained."

"Only minimally, my lady."

"I wish to see your fresh specimens, Torial. As you remember, I prefer to train my own. Do you have any that are untouched?"

Torial motioned to one of his cohorts, who hurried over and whispered in his ear. "Mm. Mm-hmm. I see."

Aravis's heart sank.

"We brought in a fresh cargo just a few days ago," Torial said to her, folding his hands, "and I am told that rather a few of them fit your requirements. However…"

"I wish to see them."

"As you desire, but I do feel compelled to warn you that they have been less than cooperative."

Aravis's heart soared. "All the better. I find that uppity captives, when broken, make the best slaves."

Torial nodded readily. "As you wish, your esteemed ladyship. If you will accompany me, I will show you where they are held, and you may select however many you wish to be brought out for your inspection."

"Dear Torial, I do believe you might live up to your reputation."

This compliment made him beam, and he bowed. "If you will follow me, then."

It took effort for Aravis not to skip as she and Hana scurried along beside Torial. Even the initial dank darkness of the slave quarters did little to sour her mood, though Hana breathed quickly and shallowly in her ear. The sounds echoing along the dark corridor, however, gave her pause. Though the slaves in the cells they passed sat quietly or slept, somewhere in the distance someone was shouting. Hana gripped Aravis's arm.

"Forgive us, dearest lady," Torial said as they neared the source of the noise. "I am afraid that the ruckus you hear is the newest batch. Trained Torial & Medis slaves never raise their voices without being commanded to do so."

Aravis ignored him, for the noise was coalescing into words. It was a male voice, thin and cracked from use but lusty all the same, and Aravis soon realized that while he was shouting full sentences, one word he repeated over and over again as if it were a battle cry.

"I do apologize for the din," Torial said loudly, but Aravis didn't hear him. _That word was her name._

Hana realized it at the same moment, and her nails sank into the soft flesh of Aravis's upper arm, but Aravis's heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely hear or feel anything else as they neared the cell.

"_—all be sorry, mark my words! She'll come for me, just you watch, you slimy bastards—ARAVIS. _ARAVIS!"

It took every ounce of Aravis's self-control to continue walking at a steady pace. "Goodness," she forced out. "Can't you get him quiet for just a moment?"

Torial made a gesture, and the next shouted sentence was cut off suddenly with the sound of a sharp crack. The bottom of Aravis's stomach dropped out.

"Tha'r's the 'ulprit," said the jail keeper as they approached the bars, pointing.

Behind Aravis, Hana started to gasp, but she masked the sound with a yawn. The cell was crowded with people of all kinds, most dressed in rags and moth-eaten cloth, but there, shining amidst them like a beacon in his white tunic, was Cor. Aravis found herself unable to breathe. He was getting up from the ground where he had fallen, wiping blood from a gash across his nose and lips with his sleeve, but there he was, golden and whole, just as she had hoped.

"Thank you, gaoler," Torial said smoothly. "Now, my most esteemed lady, we have silence. Would you like to—"

Cor staggered to the bars again and bellowed, "_You have made the worst mistake of your lives, you pox-ridden whoresons, for Aravis is fire and ice and rage and she will burn the hearts out of you all—_"

"Gaoler, please," Torial snapped. Before Aravis could stop him, the big man lashed out a bullwhip, gouging a long red line in Cor's forearm. He lurched backwards, but the jailer wasn't finished; the big man swung the gate open just enough to slip through, closed it, and seized Cor by the collar.

"Is that really necessary?" Aravis croaked as he landed blow after blow on Cor's face. She felt close to vomiting, but there was no going back now. "You'll ruin his aesthetics."

Torial let the beating go on for another moment, but then he motioned for the jailer to stop. The big man grunted and tossed Cor back to the ground where he writhed slowly, moaning. Aravis trembled. "Do any of these strike your fancy?" Torial asked her courteously.

"Hm," she said vaguely, stalling for time until she could control her shaking voice. "I think that one—yes, him in the back…and those twins in the front. And is that pockmarked one all right? Then him, too."

"Is that all, milady?"

She flicked her eyes over the other inhabitants of the cell, who stared blankly at the floor or right through her like she didn't even exist. "Well…why don't you bring the shouter up? It could be entertaining."

"Very good." Torial offered her his arm, and she took it with the uttermost distaste and allowed him to escort her out of the building. "Are you pleased with our selection of fresh ones?"

"Time will tell," she answered. "I want to see them in daylight first."

"You are very wise."

As she settled back into her heated seat, a fresh cup of chocolate in her hands, Aravis realized that she was shaking from head to toe. Hana looked pale, too, and she rested a hand on her shoulder in an effort to encourage her. It didn't help. Aravis didn't even register the existence of the other men who were led out onto the pavilion; her eyes were fixed on Cor's bowed shoulders, at the strain in his arms as he shuffled forward with them tied tightly behind his back. His lip was still dribbling blood, and she saw him spit some onto the brown grass.

The exercises the driver made the new men do were not as impressive, if that was the right word. They were all chained together by their ankles, and most of them had their arms bound cruelly like Cor's. It was their eyes, though, that sickened Aravis the most as they trotted in place and bent at the waist to prove their health: they looked dead already, as if their spirits had fled and left the bodies behind. At least in Calormen, she thought uneasily, the slaves they used were born into the class, not stolen away and forced into it.

"Would you care to inspect them?"

Torial's words startled Aravis out of her reverie, and she placed her untouched chocolate back on its tray. "Rather," she said, standing. "I see a few with promise."

He beamed as he followed her onto the pavilion.

The wind was picking up, and Aravis nervously kept a hand to the pin on her veil in fear that it would rip off and expose her to Cor. With her other hand, she pinched and prodded and sidestepped gobs of phlegm that some of the men spat at her. (The driver was loose with his lash.)

"The next one is the shouter, milady," Torial whispered cautiously in her ear as she neared Cor.

Aravis did not need to be told. She nodded mutely and moved over to stand in front of him. Even with his arms and ankles bound, Cor still stood a full head taller than she was, his blue eyes blazing with anger as he stood with his gaze fixed firmly somewhere above her head. It was better this way, she thought unhappily. If he glanced down at her face, he might recognize her. Still, she had a role to play, so she felt his arms to assess his strength (they were hard as rocks as he strained against his bonds) and ran her hand across his belly to check for illness (his skin was damp with sweat and unnaturally warm). After a tense moment, she moved swiftly on to the others, and soon reached the end of the line with a bead of sweat trickling down the back of her neck.

"What do you think?" Torial asked.

"Much better," she pronounced. "I am rather fond of that shouter, I think—a handsome fellow, and young."

"Indeed. He has endurance, as well—I am quite sure he would please even your choosiest guests."

"Mm. I wish to see him again. Would you pull him out?"

Torial motioned to one of his men, who stepped forward and unlocked Cor's ankle shackles. The moment he was free, though, Cor let out an unintelligible shout and threw his full weight against the stooping figure of the driver. The man fell flat on his back, and Cor got a good dozen feet before three of Torial's men caught up, knocking him to the ground and setting upon him with heavy boots and hard hands.

"Enough," Torial said after a moment. To Aravis he turned and said, "Are you quite certain, my lady?"

"He has spirit. Bring him forward."

The men dragged Cor to stand a few yards away from where she and Torial waited; Cor's head hung between his shoulders as he drew ragged breaths. Blood dripped down his face from a fresh gash on his forehead.

"Stand up," Torial barked.

The men stepped back from Cor, who weaved and panted but raised an icy blue gaze and fixed it upon them. "I won't be a slave," he snarled. "You'll see."

"A sharp tongue he has," Torial said to Aravis. "Nothing a hot iron wouldn't suit, don't you think?"

Aravis's eyes were fixed on Cor. He looked at her once, but his burning glance seemed to go right through her, as if she weren't there, and he spat blood at her feet. One of the men cuffed him hard.

"Yes," she said as an aside to Torial, turning to walk back to the gazebo. "He'll do quite nicely."

Torial had no choice but to follow her. "Milady, do you think—"

"You will treat her ladyship with the proper respect," Hana cut in sharply.

He looked abashed and bowed deeply. "Of course."

"Let us negotiate price," Aravis said brusquely. "I wish to continue on my journey as soon as possible."

Torial made a sharp gesture, and a moment later another of his associates was rushing forward with pen and ledger. Aravis settled into her warm chair and leaned back as Torial made some scratching marks in the book. "I will not pay two hundred gilds for him," she said bluntly. "You have not trained him."

"You are fair," Torial answered. "190 gilds."

"You insult me. 190 gilds for an untrained, ill-kept slave? He felt feverish to me. What if he dies just after I leave? It will be your fault, but my purse will feel the brunt."

"Yes," Torial sputtered. "Er—ah—yes, then—180 gilds."

Aravis scoffed and went to stand up.

"No, no, you're right," he laughed nervously. "170."

"130."

"Oh, now, my most esteemed lady, we have gone to all the trouble of finding and feeding the specimen. 145."

"Yes, my good sir, but your handlers have beaten his face to a pulp. I will have to spend money and waste slave hours on healing it so he is whole again. 140."

Torial squirmed. "145."

"140, Torial, and that is my last offer."

He hesitated again, and Aravis went to stand up. "No, no, wait, my good lady," he sighed resignedly. "140 gilds and he is yours."

Aravis seized his hand and shook it before he could retract. "Done."

"Right. Sign here, please."

She scratched a vague mark in the ledger, and Torial closed it. "Yes. Well, then. We will clean him up and get him set to accompany you."

"Very good. Would you then be so kind as to escort me back to your home? My maid and I wish to depart as soon as the new manservant is ready."

Torial looked all too relieved at the suggestion. "Of course, my most esteemed lady."

They turned away from the pavilion and headed toward the gate. Aravis's head was spinning dangerously—she had just bought the crown prince for a sum total of 140 gilds—and Hana looked green in the face. She rather got the worst of it; as Aravis climbed unsteadily into the carriage, Hana lurched, turned aside and vomited pitifully into the gutter. Torial lent her his handkerchief, which she kept pressed to her lips the rest of the ride back. Aravis understood the sensation; every time she closed her eyes, she saw the deep wrinkles between Cor's eyebrows as he told the slavers that she was 'fire and ice and rage.' Where he had gotten that idea, she couldn't even guess, but she breathed a bit easier knowing that, at least for now, he was hers and would be safe from harm.

* * *

_A/N: Wow! What a fun anniversary week! Thanks to all who entered the contests—I'll be contacting the winners soon! It was such fun reading all your submissions for Guess the Kiss, in particular. Many of you got bits and pieces right, so I hope you enjoy seeing your predictions come true in the upcoming chapters._

_If you're bummed that you didn't get a chance to enter and you still want me to hear your guesses (or dream scenarios), go ahead and shoot them to me in a PM! I won't be able to offer any prizes, but I will enjoy reading them and may slip some hints your way. ;) _

_Also, some of your responses were so poetic and beautiful! I hope that someday you guys will turn those little vignettes into full-length Cor/Aravis fics—there aren't enough out there!_

_PS: Any long-time Schmo and Sushi readers recognize Torial? :)_


	50. Chapter Fifty

_A/N: Here's a nice, long, __**bloody**__ chapter! That's got you all worried now, hasn't it?_

_Chapter Fifty_

Torial insisted on serving Aravis lunch before he let her pack. She agreed, as she knew she had to, but the tedious business of making small talk over unsubstantive little sandwiches was now almost unbearable. She was so, so close to Cor—she had _seen_ him, _touched_ him—and now this weaselly little man was droning on and on about the laxity of Narnian society and how the guard along the western wilds should be increased. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blood dripping from Cor's face; every time there was a moment of silence she heard him bellow her name at the top of his lungs until his voice cracked from the strain. The fire he had spoken of was burning steadily in her breast, slowly drowning out all other concerns.

She turned down Torial's offer of a last glass of wine. "We really must be going," she said stiffly. "And I must get you your payment."

He could not argue with that, and so Aravis curtsied and smiled and performed the necessary rituals of leaving a dinner table before slipping from the room and walking as quickly as her tight frock would allow her. Hana was waiting for her in the room, already mostly packed and looking pink with excitement. "We're so close I can almost taste it," she whispered, grinning at herself in the mirror.

Aravis nodded and stuffed what little she had into her satchel with trembling hands. "We must keep up the charade until we are out of the city, at least," she said firmly, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. It really was ridiculous—she felt on the verge of screaming, laughing, or sobbing, she wasn't sure which. _It's just _Cor_. You've seen him a hundred thousand times. _"When we're beyond the walls, we can reveal ourselves and then get out of these ridiculous frocks—"

"I think they're pretty," Hana said mournfully.

"Yes, until we freeze to death."

Hana buckled the last satchel and Aravis tucked her sword and its scabbard under her arm as the plump blonde beamed up at her. "Let's go get our prince," Hana said happily, and led the way from the room.

Aravis's stomach was in tight knots by the time they reached the front door. Torial was waiting for them, and Aravis held out the purse that contained 140 gilds. He took it with a bow, smiling pleasantly, but Aravis saw him squeezing it carefully when he thought she wasn't looking.

All thought of Torial vanished, however, when the footman opened the door for her and she saw Raider and Inga waiting outside with freshly oiled tack. They looked so sleek and neat, their manes and tails trimmed and hooves polished, that Aravis almost didn't recognize them; they had been fed well, too, judging by their alert ears and gentle whickering. While Hana cooed over Inga's shiny forelock (surprisingly, Inga allowed this), Aravis looked about for Cor, frantic for a moment until she saw him, unchained but lashed to Raider's saddle with a length of rope that wrapped tightly around his wrists. He looked pale and unsteady on his feet, and his lip and eyes were swollen and dark.

"Is everything in order?" Torial asked her as she waited for the footmen to finish loading Inga and Raider up.

"I should think so," she said more breezily than she felt. "Although, he does look a bit peaky."

"He may be acting it, my lady. You are experienced enough to know not to let him get away with it."

"I know just the thing," Aravis answered, resisting the urge to be sick. "I'll break him soon, have no doubt about that, Master Torial."

Torial bowed and kissed her hand. "It was a unique pleasure doing business with you, my lady."

Aravis pulled her hand back quickly before he could see or feel how rough they were—no real tarkheena would have hands as raw and callused as hers, he would think, and find them out. For a moment, Torial eyed her, but then the footmen were finished and they were handing her up onto Raider.

"We appreciate your hospitality," she lied, drawing Raider up tight. "It will not go unnoticed."

Torial bowed low. With a swooping sensation of liberty, Aravis pulled Raider around and kicked him into a walk quick enough to be forceful but not so quick that Cor, stumbling along behind, could not keep up. The strange caravan wound its way down the streets of Shadesport, Aravis riding with one hand on the reins and the other on the hilt of her short sword that she had hidden in the folds of her skirt. It seemed ridiculous to her that she, the highest-ranking woman in the kingdom and no commoner in Calormen, was scuttling around a seedy slaving city in the southeastern wilds while fearing for the safety of her cargo, the crown prince.

At any rate, they made it through the city without much trouble, though Cor was in constant danger of being smushed between horses or run over by absent-minded cart drivers. Aravis finally instructed Hana to ride behind her so she could keep an eye on him, afraid that he, already white as a sheet and struggling to keep up, would injure himself even more.

The plains outside the city were barren looking now that the powdery snow had melted away in patches. This openness worried Aravis, and she glanced over her shoulder at Cor, hoping he could make it a few more miles. He looked bad. His swollen, darkening nose was dribbling blood, making her suspect that it was broken, and his face, underneath the bruises and swelling, was the color of porridge.

Still the walls of Shadesport loomed on the horizon, so Aravis turned back and urged Raider into a quicker amble. If they stopped now, they might be seen by anyone, and that anyone might work for Torial & Medis. She shivered. There was nothing more she wanted now that her adrenaline was wearing down than a hot bath, a warm bed, and a good book. She hated that she was dragging Cor by the wrists like a mule; she felt dirty deep inside and wished with all her heart that she had gone after him that night and forced him to come to dinner.

_Dinner_. When was the last time Cor ate?

She grew anxious. Neither of them had thought to pack food, had they? A quick rummage around in her saddlebags proved that she had some bread and a wedge of dry cheese, and that was it. Her water skin was full, though, and she breathed a little better. Not much better, though; now she would need to hunt. Cor looked terrible, and he would not be able to catch up with the others without proper food. There must be some kind of game this time of year, she reasoned, and while shooting squirrels out of trees called for the kind of accuracy Aravis didn't have, taking down large game would be easy enough if she had a knife and plenty of arrows. But they were still too close to the city. She couldn't let herself relax until nightfall, when they could finally stop.

Cor soon changed her mind, though. It was starting to grow dark when Aravis, who was thinking longingly about Christmases spent at the winter hunting lodge with only Cor, Corin, and Lune to bother her, when there was a loud thump and subsequent gasp.

"He's fainted," Hana yelped, and Aravis spun around. Sure enough, Cor was sprawling on the stiff grass, his bound wrists out before him as if prostrated in homage.

Aravis nearly fell from Raider's back in her haste to dismount. "_Cor_," she said loudly in her best Aravis Voice, hoping it would wake him from his stupor. He did not respond.

"Is he all right?" Hana said worriedly.

Aravis cut his bonds with the knife she usually reserved for food and his hands fell limply to the ground. His pulse was shallow and quick, but what concerned Aravis the most when she put two fingers against his unshaven neck was the heat that emanated from his skin. "He's burning up," she announced briskly. Of course—what else could possibly go wrong?

Hana made a squeak of worry, which did not help Aravis's nerves one bit. She had nothing to give him for the fever, even if she knew what was causing it. Hunger, infection, some sort of illness he contracted in the cell, a bleeding wound somewhere she couldn't see—any number of things could have gone wrong.

She lifted his dirty shirt. There were no visible cuts on his stomach and chest, but they were bruised beyond belief, and several of his ribs felt strange as she ran her hands across them. "They beat him," she spat. "Even after I told them not to."

"You told them it would spoil his looks," Hana replied quietly. "They thought you meant his face."

Aravis's heart sank. She would much rather them have beaten his face than anywhere else—facial wounds were unsightly, but they were rarely dangerous. Abdominal injuries were enigmatic and secretive, often hiding until it was too late. "We need to get him to a safe place for tonight," she said. "Help me lift him onto Raider."

The two of them struggled with his deadweight, but soon they had him over the saddle, breathing harshly but at least more transportable.

"Where are we going?" Hana asked.

Aravis eyed their surroundings. Just before the horizon tipped down was a large copse of trees, probably one that led back up into the craggy hills. "There," she said, pointing. "We'll be safer there, and the campfire won't be so obvious."

Hana nodded and got back up on Inga; Aravis grabbed Raider's reins and led him off at a brisk pace. Inga and Hana, their tack jingling with each step, followed behind. The copse grew larger the closer they got, and Aravis began to imagine how Cor would react when his fever broke and he was lucid again. She thought he would get that startled rabbit expression and probably swear a few times for good measure, but she would tell him it was no problem, really, and that he shouldn't worry about it at all. They would laugh together and he would make her tell the story over and over again.

They were at the copse in no time. Night had almost completely fallen by then, though, so Aravis helped Hana pitch the tents and then set to making a fire to boil water in a small tin dish. Hunting would have to wait until tomorrow; for now, Cor was her priority.

He was worse than bad, she realized when she got a chance to look at him properly. His face looked so painful; both his eyes were blackened and his nose encrusted with blood, the whip wound gaping open and making his lips swollen. On the rest of his body, old bruises indicated that he probably had not gone easily into captivity—no, he _certainly_ hadn't, judging by the state of his knuckles. There were also thin but deep cuts along the tops of his shoulders, probably from the slave driver's whip, and several of them were inflamed and pussy.

"Bring me some of that hot water," she said to Hana, who brought it immediately. She soaked bits of cloth she had torn from his dingy tunic in the scalding water and, after letting it cool for a moment, started to wash out all the open cuts. Though he was not conscious enough to realize what was going on, she noticed the mask of pain that had settled onto his face. It made him look fifty years older.

"That looks bad," Hana said grimly.

"His fever is very high. He needs to eat."

"I've only got bread and cheese."

Aravis swore under her breath. "Give me my water flask, then." Hana obeyed, and Aravis let a thin stream of water trickle into his mouth, hoping he would swallow. Most of it ran down his chin. He needed the water more than anything—his skin was papery and his lips were cracked, telling Aravis that he was already dehydrated. A fever and dehydration were a dangerous combination.

Hana placed a few cool cloths on Cor's damp forehead. "What are we going to do now?"

"We'll have to keep him warm," Aravis answered with a sigh, rubbing the space between her eyebrows. "And we'll get an early start tomorrow but stop early too, and I'll try to find something for food. He needs broth."

Hana nodded. "I'll watch him tonight, then. You go to sleep."

The offer was tempting, but Aravis couldn't stomach the idea of letting Cor out of her sight. "I slept plenty well last night," she lied. "You sleep, and I'll watch him."

Hana agreed readily and, bundled up in her blankets, trundled off to her tent for the night.

It grew very quiet as night fell upon them. Even the horses were abnormally subdued, Inga standing stock-still and alert as the moon played shadow games on her dappled coat. "Are you nervous, lady?" Aravis murmured as she put more water to boil and checked the horses' lashes. Inga bumped her elbow with her nose and flicked her ears; Raider grunted as he lipped her face. It amused Aravis for a moment to think that Cor's massive warhorse was more affectionate with her than her own courser, supposedly bred for its gentle nature. She poured a few oats on the ground for them to eat; Raider bent immediately to it, but Inga stayed poised with her eye on Aravis. She got the feeling that the nag was watching for something. "If only you could talk," she sighed, rubbing the spot on Inga's nose where the bridle had worn down the hair. Inga whickered.

The water on the fire was bubbling, and Aravis went over and pulled it gingerly from the heat. It was essential that she keep Cor's wounds clean until Rhys could have a go at him—if she knew anything about medicine, it was that infection could strike without warning and fell the sturdiest warrior in a matter of hours. She had seen it happen, and Cor's high fever worried her.

His skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat when she ducked back into his tent, the tin of water in one hand and a stubby candle in the other. "It's just me, Cor," she said as he groaned, even though she knew he was too deep in delirium to notice. "It's Aravis. You're safe now."

She rolled him over onto his stomach so she could have a better go at his shoulders. To her dismay, the gashes she had cleaned earlier were already pussy again, and the swelling had spread to several others. It really wasn't fair, she thought angrily as she rinsed and dried them carefully. Cor's broad, strong back was pitted with whip scars already—he had been so self-conscious of them when he was younger—but now these old scars were to be covered up by new ones.

"It's as if the world is determined to make you a slave," she said aloud, wiping a dribble of bloody water from his unshaven cheek. His only response was shallow breathing. "You'll always feel like one, now, even if you're not. You've been marked. We both have." _Slaves to different things_.

Aravis rolled him back to his original position and set to examining him more thoroughly. His lumpy ribs worried her, and the more she felt them, the more convinced she became that several were either broken or dislocated. A broken rib could puncture a lung, turning a painful inconvenience into fatal agony. She moved on. His stomach, though hot with fever, felt normal, and his chest and neck were smooth as well, to her relief. And when she washed the blood and grime off his face, she told herself that he really didn't look too terrible and that his swollen nose would probably heal back to its proper shape. Once she had rinsed the dried blood from his golden hair and smoothed it back from his forehead, he seemed almost presentable.

_If only he would wake._

She sat next to him and waited for his eyes to flutter. After a few minutes she poured a dribble of water and salt down his throat, massaging his neck with the tips of her fingers to encourage the muscles to convulse.

_Wake up_.

A harsh gust of wind shuddered against the canvas walls of the tent, and Aravis pulled a blanket up over his chest and adjusted her cloak. There was a deep furrow between his brows. "Is this what you'll look like in a decade?" she asked him with a half-hearted attempt at levity, tracing the lines that had formed around his eyes with two fingers.

_Wake, damn it!_

"I'm glad you won't open your eyes," she said flippantly. "I like you better this way—nice and quiet. You can't argue and you can't talk back. I should recommend it to your father." _You can't laugh at me,_ she thought. _You can't yell at me. You can't hurt or be hurt. You can't even wonder why I'm here. You can't ask if I'm going to marry anyone. You can't get angry when I say I am._

Another sweat had broken out on his skin, and she methodically wiped him down and applied more cool cloths to his head. A wolf howled outside. Its lonely voice called from far away, but Aravis peeked her head out of the tent to check the horses just in case. They were alert but calm, flicking their ears and tails to shake off the thick snow that had begun to fall.

"Hear that?" she asked, closing the tent flap and moving beside him again. "A wolf. Do you remember how frightened you used to be of wolves? You started to cry when you heard one our first Christmas at the lodge." She waited for him to deny it, but he stayed motionless under the blanket. "It was just after midnight on Christmas Eve and Lune thought we were asleep, but we were sneaking down to the hall to see if Father Christmas had come yet. You made me hold your hand because you said you'd fall down the stairs and make a commotion otherwise, but I think you were scared of the shadows." She still remembered his tight, damp grip. "We were nearly there, just passing that big snowy window on the east side when we heard it. I swear, you jumped a foot. I laughed at you until I saw that you were crying."

As she thought about it, though, it occurred to her for the first time that perhaps he hadn't been crying because of the wolf. Guilt settled in her stomach in like she had swallowed a brick. "If I haven't said so yet," she sighed, putting her hand over one of his, "I'm sorry for that."

There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than for Cor's fingers to curl around hers. They didn't, of course, and she adjusted his blanket with her free hand. "To be fair, though," she went on, "you did spend the rest of the night shivering in my bed."

His silence wrenched like a knife in her gut. She wanted to shake him, to scream at him until he opened his eyes and spoke to her—when was the last time they had had a conversation that was not charged with tension or so brief as to be meaningless? He was slipping away like sand through her fingers. Every day brought them closer to Anvard and further apart, Cor closer to his new wife and Aravis further from his side.

"Aravis…"

The word sent a jolt through Aravis's body, and she was hovering over him in a second, her hand smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead. "Cor? Cor—it's me, Aravis—"

His eyes were rolling around; she could see flashes of blue between his lids, and it made her heart leap up into her throat. "Cor, wake up…_please_, look at me…"

"Aravis…_Aravis_!"

"I'm here, Cor, right here!"

His back arched and his whole body tensed, and Aravis realized it was the fever that was making him call out. The delirium had a firm hold on his brain. Quickly, she poured water down his throat and laid wet rags on his forehead and chest, switching them out as they warmed until his ragged breathing eased and he sank back into the fog of fever.

"There, there," she said gently, dabbing the sweat from his face and neck between wiping away the tears that had appeared on her cheeks. "I'm right here."

It was a long, cold night. Cor drifted between delirious fits and frightening stillness until the sun rose, and then Hana came to help Aravis dress him as warmly as they could to ward against the bone-chilling cold that had accompanied the fresh, deep snow. "His fever doesn't seem much higher," Hana said hopefully as they lashed him carefully to Raider's saddle, bundled like an old woman in layers of frothy dresses and woolen blankets. "Did you sleep?"

"Barely," Aravis croaked.

"I'll walk, then. You _must_ ride—you look dead on your feet."

She did not complain. Once the campsite was packed up, she clambered into the saddle, glad to have finally changed out of the thin frock she wore from Shadesport, and let the reins drop; Hana seized Raider's bridle and set off, shuffling through the shin-deep snow. Inga followed docilely.

Aravis dozed fitfully throughout the day. When they stopped to rest and eat around midday, Hana handed her a water skin and then let her catch a half-hour's real sleep under a rocky outcropping before gently shaking her awake and helping back onto Inga.

By the end of the day, though, Aravis knew she had to wake up. It had been a full thirty-six hours since they had last eaten anything substantial and Cor was looking very poorly. If she didn't fell some game tonight, they could easily all fall prey to the cold.

"He's doing all right for now," Hana told her as they nibbled halfheartedly on the last bits of cheese, huddled around the campfire they had made under a spreading evergreen. "I've got him wrapped up against the chills."

Aravis nodded. "It's nearly twilight—I should go. Give me your bow and I'll leave you my sword."

Hana agreed somewhat nervously, and the exchange was made. "I'll be back in a few hours," Aravis said as she stripped Inga of any unnecessary tack and mounted up.

"And if you're not?" Hana said anxiously.

"I will be." Before the younger woman had a chance to protest, and before she could be persuaded to change her mind, Aravis swung Inga's head around and pointed her out towards the snowy plains.

They had come across some deer droppings earlier in the day, giving her some vague hope that other game might also be near. As Inga slogged her way along the treeline, the snow billowed around them, making the landscape a uniform shade of grey and limiting Aravis's field of vision to mere yards. The white powder would cover their tracks and mask their scent, but it would also make spotting a herd much more difficult.

The snow blew into Aravis's eyes and mouth. It was hard to resist sputtering, but the noise would scare off any prey that might be nearby, so Aravis fiddled with the bow and arrow she held in one hand to keep herself occupied. Inga plowed ahead, staying just within the treeline to keep them hidden from a foraging herd.

It seemed like hours before the terrain shifted. They were heading upwards, Aravis noticed, and the hill sloped down into a shallow trough that soon deepened into a valley. After a few more minutes, she halted Inga and slid from the saddle, landing with a barely-audible puff in the snow. "Wish me luck, lady," she whispered in Inga's ear as she lashed her loosely to a branch. The real work was to be done on foot.

She moved on in the slow, crouching stance that Lune had taught her, choosing each step with care. Luckily, the sharp wind was blowing her scent back to Inga, not into the valley, and the snow reflected what little light was left in the sky to illuminate her way. The arrow bounced gently against the bowstring she had her fingers hooked around.

Suddenly, she saw it. Just beyond the treeline, pawing holes in the snow with one cleft hoof, was a massive bull elk. Aravis froze in place, breathless with awe, struck dumb at the sight of the creature's looming profile. Snow had accumulated on its back and spreading antlers, giving it the look of a wise old king draped in his robes. She thought about raising her bow—she had a clear shot at the thing's vulnerable shoulder, where her arrow would slip between the ribs and puncture both lungs—but it seemed so _wrong_ to kill the noble creature when she only needed enough food for three people. She knew she wouldn't even be able to get it onto Inga's back.

The elk made the decision for her and moved away. She released a breath of relief, the mist hanging in the air in front of her, and tiptoed forward until more of the herd became visible.

_Ah, there_.

A large late-season calf, the snow swallowing its gangly legs, was stumbling about and trying to nibble at the grass other elk had uncovered. Aravis watched it closely. Where was its dam? The calf's coat was thin and patchy, and as it wobbled its way closer, she noticed that its ribs and hips were prominent. An orphan. Perhaps its mother had been killed by other hunters, she reasoned, or picked off by wolves. Either way, it would not survive the winter. She raised her bow.

The arrow buried itself deep behind the calf's left shoulder blade. It let out a bugle, high-pitched with pain and youth, and bolted into the woods a few feet before it stumbled, floundered, and fell with a thump into the snow. Aravis rushed forward, knife in hand. This was her least favorite part of the job—felling the animal was easy, but dressing it took an amount of brute strength she didn't think she had. Luckily, the calf was small, and she rolled it onto its back with relative ease after removing the arrow. The first thing to do was bleed it, so she reached down and turned the creature's head so she could cut the thick veins that ran through its neck. As the snow around her reddened, she moved aside and winced as her knife punctured the skin of the abdomen with a slick pop. She slid the blade towards the sternum until the opened abdominal cavity steamed in the cold air. For lack of a hatchet, she used a sharp rock and the heel of her boot to crack the ribcage until she was able to cut the viscera and let it slide, glistening with blood, out onto the snow. Usually, the animal's innards would be thrown to the dogs or kept for specialty stews, but Aravis had no time for the latter and thus threw it aside. She hoped the blood wouldn't attract any scavengers to their camp.

The animal was considerably lighter now. With a grunt and a moment of wooziness, Aravis lifted it up (getting a bloody knee in the eye) and staggered down the hill to where Inga waited, still lashed to the tree.

"We're in luck," she announced as she threw the carcass over Inga's saddle. The horse grunted and flicked her ears at the smell of blood. "Let's go quickly, before the wolves get here."

They followed Inga's hoof prints down the hill. Aravis walked briskly, energized by the adrenaline of the kill, but mostly eager to get back to the camp, scrub her hands, and throw bits of the stringy meat into a pot of snow to make a thin broth she could dribble down Cor's throat. Inga seemed just as keen to get out of the trees and back to the fire, too, and she bumped Aravis's shoulder with her nose a few times as if to urge her on.

The return trip took longer than Aravis thought. The snow soaked through her skirts and began to dampen her wool trousers, and a few times the white landscape in front of her swirled uncomfortably until she took a few deep breaths. "Let's get this thing back, lady," she said nervously. "I need the food."

Inga tossed her head and grunted uneasily. The footprints they were leaving in the snow were stained with blood, and Aravis thought of the wolf she had heard the night before. "Easy, Inga," she said with a confidence she did not feel.

"Is that you, Aravis?"

Hana's voice echoed against the trees that surrounded them. Inga whickered in response and practically pulled Aravis along as she hurried to the source of the sound. Secretly, Aravis was just as relieved to see the short, blonde woman as Inga was to see the fire.

Hana lowered the sword she had in her hands. "Thank the lion," she sighed. "Raider's been antsy all this time, and I thought I heard wolves…"

"It's all right," Aravis answered. "How is Cor? Is he awake yet?"

"No. He needs food desperately."

Aravis slipped the quiver from her shoulder and set it atop the pile of luggage. "I'll need help dressing the meat."

Hana nodded. "Have you got rope?"

Together, they knotted a length of thick twine around the calf's ankles and threw the ends over a sturdy branch some distance from the tents. The remaining blood pooled in the snow and steamed as they hoisted the carcass into the air and secured the rope to another branch.

"Knife," said Aravis, who was taller than Hana and therefore had the enviable task of loosening the hide. Hana handed it to her and helped her balance on a slick stone. On her first pass the knife slipped and she nearly sliced her hand open, but on the second try, it slipped easily under the skin and she made a series of cuts along the elk's haunches. The skin was easier to remove then, and with Hana on the other side, they were able to wrench the hide from the meat like a warm, slick tunic. Raider, a horse bred for and seasoned on the battlefield, caught the scent of blood and pulled against his ties, arching his neck and blowing hard.

"What should we do with it?" Hana panted once Aravis had cut it free. "It would make such a warm coat…"

"We haven't the time," Aravis answered, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. "Give it here. I'll bring it away and bury it once we're finished."

Hana nodded and set to cutting hunks of the shoulder from the carcass to put in the tin of water that was simmering on the fire. It wasn't a beautiful job they had done of skinning and butchering it, but Aravis was past caring. All that mattered to her now was that they could have enough meat to keep Cor going. Now that there was all this snow, who knew when they would find Corin and the rest?

Even the mere thought of Corin made her sweat with anger, so she amended her mental appellation to 'Ram and the rest.' A letter of report to Lune was long overdue, and she made a mental note as she scrubbed her bloody hands with snow to report Rhys in particular when she got around to writing it.

She rolled the hide up in a bundle and stalked off into the gloaming until she could no longer see or hear the fire. There was a particularly tall snowdrift that had formed against the trunk of a dead tree, and she buried the bloody hide deep under it. Hopefully that would be enough to confuse the scavengers and keep them away from the tents and horses.

"All we need now are some dragons," Hana said blithely as Aravis came back and sat by the fire to warm her frozen fingers.

Aravis shivered. "At least we'd be a bit warmer."

Hana made a noise that sounded like something between a snort and a sob, sprinkling some of their precious salt into the pot and stirring the mixture with a tin spoon. "Boiled meat was my father's specialty, you know," she said.

"I think I had some the night we were there. It was good."

"He bought the meat from a man down the street, a trapper, and would carve it up for me to season and cook. I wonder how he's getting on, now that it's winter."

"Does the season make a difference?"

"In Wolfdell, it does. You saw the snow when we were there in June. When the winter snows come, Wolfdell is cut off from the rest of the kingdom until the thaw. No one gets through, no one gets out. Only travelers who were unwise are there to stay in the inn, and most of the time they can't pay. I hope, for his sake, that at least _someone_ is there with him."

Aravis watched Hana. It had never really occurred to her just how much the younger woman had given up to come with them, but the enormity of it all hit her hard as she passed her the bits of bedraggled wintercress that they had found growing along the way. "What will he do if you don't return?"

Hana shrugged. "I suppose he'll get on, marry again. He really should have done it right away when my mother died. I've told him a thousand times that he needed another pair of hands. Of course," she added, tearing the wintercress leaves into small pieces and throwing them into the pot, "I don't think he wanted to give me an excuse to leave."

"He must have loved you very much."

"I'm sure he did. But I think he loved my work a bit more. Here, try a sip and tell me what you think."

Hana thrust the spoon at Aravis's face, and as Aravis tasted the broth, she understood that the conversation, such as it was, was now over. "It's good," she said truthfully as the meat fat and tangy wintercress hit her tongue, her empty stomach cramping with hunger. "Very good."

"I'll pour some out for Cor and you can bring it in to him. I'll let the meat boil a little longer."

Aravis was silent for a long time as Hana spooned the yellow broth into a shallow dish. "You should bring it to him, Hana." The words hurt. "You're his betrothed, after all."

Hana stopped ladling for a brief moment. "Perhaps." She tapped the spoon against the pot. "But I think that, when he wakes up, you're the one he'll want to see."

"He shouldn't. He should want to see you."

"Me, or Janey, or Ragna, or Findora. We're afterthoughts to him, Aravis. Don't you see? We're here because he needs us to be. _You're_ here because he wants you to be."

"He does a bloody poor job of showing it."

"Maybe. But I think it's because he's frightened."

"Of me?"

"No—not at all. Of being king. You saw him in the cell, Aravis. He wasn't scared one wit."

"He was calling their bluff."

"And you. He called for you. Not for me, not even for Ragna."

Aravis's face felt hot. "All right, I'll bring it to him," she said gruffly.

"You're doing it again," Hana said knowingly as Aravis took the dish from her and stood up.

"What? What am I doing now?"

"Pretending like no one loves you."

Aravis sighed and went to Cor's tent, closing the flaps as noisily as she could. Hana was right, she thought uncomfortably as she touched Cor's hot cheek and felt for his pulse; the image of him rattling the iron bars and bellowing her name like a battle cry was burned indelibly into her mind. That wasn't the act of a frightened little boy. Cor was a man now, the future king, fully in control of the situation even as he was a slave, and all because he knew she would be there for him. It was a heavy burden.

She dribbled the broth into his mouth, holding his chin with one hand so he wouldn't move. It went down easily, so she tried more, desperate to get him the nourishment he so desperately needed. Suddenly, he gurgled and made a horrid choking sound, and she pushed him onto his side just as he vomited weakly, coughing and shivering and scrabbling at the blankets with whitened fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said, rolling him back and wiping his mouth with a scrap of cloth. "I'll go more slowly."

She did, trying to contain the trembling in her hands, and soon the broth was gone, hopefully to stay in his stomach. His color already looked a bit better, though she couldn't tell if that was a trick of the flickering candlelight.

"Aravis," she heard Hana call. "The meat is ready."

"I'll be right back," she whispered to Cor, pulling the blankets up to his chin. "Don't go anywhere. Ha."

Hana met her outside with a hunk of glistening dark meat impaled on a fork, already chewing quickly. "Don't eat too fast," she said around her mouthful. "You'll make yourself sick."

Aravis nodded and tore into the food. It was bland and tasteless, and the texture stringy, but her stomach roared for it and she had quickly devoured three large pieces before she considered getting a drink of water.

"Stop now," Hana said warningly as Aravis reached for another spoonful. "You'll lose it all otherwise."

She was right, but it was hard for Aravis to nod and turn away from the pot. Already she was feeling better, the trembling in her hands now located in her knees as her body sent all its energy to her stomach. It was a warm, cozy feeling. "Give me some of the salt," she said, and Hana passed her the tiny pouch. She poured a little on her palms and went over to the horses. "You more than deserve it," she said as they jostled each other for the chance to lip up the life-sustaining mineral. Salt for Cor, salt for her and Hana, and salt for the horses. _Thank you, Ram._

While she waited for her stomach to make room for more food, she brought another tin of broth in to Cor. He had broken out in sweat again, and she dabbed his face dry with the sleeve of her dress before pouring more broth into his mouth. The more she could get him to keep down, the better—salt, meat bits, and water were exactly what his body needed to fight the fever.

When the dish was empty again, she pulled the blankets down to look at his injuries. There was no real change from that morning, but the swelling on his lips had gone down a little and the cut was less red. She wondered if it would leave a scar. It was not an ugly wound; in fact, it was a shame that his beard might cover most of it, for it gave his boyish face a touch of drama, a rugged addition that she rather liked.

"It's a good thing you're not awake," she said, stroking the hair from his forehead. "You'd call me very silly for thinking that."

It would garner him a fair share of respect in Anvard, though. Every nobleman keen on making a favorable impression at court had to have at least one battle scar he could use to prove his bravery. Cor had nothing other than a discolored back, funny lumps on his shins from hard falls, and knees scarred by a lifetime of tripping over things. Now, though, she thought as she traced the red line, his lips would tell a story.

"Aravis," Hana called.

Aravis jumped guiltily and pulled her hand back. "What is it?"

"I think you should eat again."

She was tempted to say no, but her stomach had handled the food well and would probably be ready for more in a few minutes anyway. "Right," she said, pulling Cor's blanket back up, "I'm coming."

The second round of eating was more relaxed. Hana shared the last bit of her stale bread, and they dunked it in the broth and sucked on it until it dissolved on their tongues. "Did he take the food well?" Hana asked.

"Yes, once I gave it to him gently."

"Good. I've boiled more, but it should keep well in this weather. We can make more broth for him tomorrow night."

"He'll be awake tomorrow night."

"I'm sure. More?"

"Absolutely."

Hana ladled more out for her and drank deeply from her water skin. "I'll watch him tonight, Aravis. You need to rest."

"I don't know…"

"Yes, you do. If it makes you feel better, I'll wake you if anything changes, and we can trade places before dawn so I can catch some sleep, too."

Aravis nodded reluctantly. "Promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Let me say goodnight to him first."

Hana smiled and nodded, and it did not occur to Aravis until later that she had announced she was going to go talk to a man who was unconscious. She had a sneaking feeling that he really could hear her, though, and that her words were not entirely getting lost in the fogs of his delirium.

That's what she told herself, anyway, as she checked his pulse one more time—too quick—and pulled another blanket over him. "Goodnight, Cor," she said. "I'm going to bed, and Hana will watch you. Do try to wake up."

She paused, looking desperately for any sign of response. "Wake up for me. Not for Hana," she added in a whisper. "Don't wake for her. It isn't fair. Wake for _me_."

Of course, he didn't respond, so she ignored her desire to throttle him by leaning down and kissing the puckered scab along his hairline, and then the edge of the swelling by his nose, and then very, very lightly the gash that crossed his lips. She wasn't entirely sure what had driven her to such sentimentality, but then it was done and he wouldn't remember it when he finally did wake, so she tucked the blankets under his chin and left.

"Goodnight, Hana," she said, blowing a puff of steam into the air.

"Goodnight, Aravis. I won't forget to wake you."

Aravis had to smile a little—Hana had taken the words right out of her mouth—as she ducked into her own tent. It was dark and cold compared to Cor's, her only source of warmth being a thick bear hide Corin had purchased from his farmer. She scowled at the thought of Corin, but before her anger could coalesce into specific words, she had fallen asleep.

* * *

"Aravis! _Aravis_!"

Aravis woke with a start. Something was wrong, very wrong, but her foggy mind couldn't quite make sense of the shadows and sounds all around her. She pushed her blankets off and rose with an effort, her joints aching with every step, and burst out into the snow.

It was like a scene from a nightmare. Hana stood by the fire, bow nocked and ready, her face white as a sheet as the horses screamed and kicked behind her. "Watch out," she wailed.

Aravis spun around. Their eyes glowing surreally in the dim firelight, a pack of lean grey wolves padded silently around the outskirts of the camp, tongues hanging out as drool dripped from their long teeth onto the snow.

"This is bad," she said instinctively. "This is very, very bad—"

"Yes, thank you for that," Hana cried.

"They smell the blood."

"I threw some of the meat to them, but they ignored it—"

Aravis's sword was on top of her satchel where she had left it, but between her and the luggage pile was a long-limbed beast with yellow eyes. It was of no use to her there. "Damn it," she spat, making the wolf bare its teeth.

There was a twang and a loud yelp, and she spun around to see Hana scrabbling for a new arrow from her quiver. One of the smaller wolves lay motionless in the snow. "I don't have enough arrows for all of them," she said in a voice thin with panic.

Aravis seized a thick branch from the smoldering fire and jabbed it at the wolf that stood between her and the horses. "_Yah_," she shouted, kicking up snow and waving the brand about so bits of cinders flew into the air. The wolf snarled and backed up.

_Twang._ Another yelp.

"Aravis—!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying!"

One of them raised its head and let out a haunting yowl. The hairs on the back of Aravis's neck prickled and she slashed out at it with the torch, but it was too late—there came a long, low, answering call from somewhere in the distance. Hana let out a cry of despair.

"I can't get to my sword," Aravis shouted, though she was sure now that a sword wouldn't do her much good. These were lean, hungry wolves, driven down from the bluffs by the desperation of a starving winter, and two girls with small weapons posed no threat to them.

_Twang_.

"I missed," Hana wailed.

Aravis took her eyes off the yellow-eyed wolf for a split second. In that moment, her guard slipped and the wolf took advantage; with a snarling bark that made her stomach drop, it leapt forward and snapped at the hand holding the torch. She screamed and fell back, landing so hard she couldn't breathe. Somehow, though, she managed to hold onto the torch, and she instinctively thrust it in the wolf's face as it went to bite a chunk out of her arm. It snarled and yelped as the fire burned its nose and eyes.

The other wolves had taken up the otherworldly snarl and were closing in; one leapt at Inga, who gave a horrible scream and hit it square in the jaw with her powerful back hoof. Raider reared up and stomped one to the ground, bugling and roaring like the warhorse he was.

Aravis gasped for breath as she scrambled to her feet. There were still too many wolves. "Hana," she cried, her voice cracking, "over here. Quick. Quick!"

A stubby arrow slashed past her and buried itself up to the fletching in the shoulder of a mangy brown wolf that had made a spring at her. She breathed easier for a second, and then—

"_Cor_!"

Hana's cry made the wolves snap their jaws, and Aravis whipped around, a scream of horror ripping from her throat. But the scene that met her eyes was not the gruesome, heartshattering one she imagined: instead of Cor's helpless body being torn at by a group of bloodthirsty carnivores, it was the other way around. Wheyfaced and bare-chested, Cor stood in the snow with his feet firmly planted, wielding a fiery branch like a club. Aravis wanted to cry.

"Back," he snarled in a hoarse voice, catching one of the bigger wolves on the jaw with the burning end of the branch. "_Get back_!" The beast yelped and snarled in pain but scurried away.

A ragged scream rent the air. It was so unearthly and agonized that Aravis's muddled brain didn't register it as real for a minute or two, but then Cor was staggering through the snow and she saw it. The biggest wolf, black as pitch, had its jaws clamped shut on Hana's upper arm and was shaking her like a rag doll as blood soaked her frock and stained the snow beneath her. Aravis screamed. The other wolves snarled at the sound.

Then she had an idea. It was hazy and probably stupid, but it was a plan, and she acted on it immediately. Thrusting the brand up against the snout of another wolf, she reached up and put all her weight on the branch that Inga and Raider were tied to. It cracked and fell from the tree, and it only took a moment for the two terrified animals to pull the reins free and bolt. Raider's heavy left hoof knocked over the tin of water that was by the fire and the resultant burst of steam billowed up in the faces of two mangy wolves. Inga, her ears laced back against her head, screamed and rampaged amongst the wolves like they were nothing more than biting flies, ignoring their barks and sharp claws just as she crushed them beneath her hooves.

Finally, suddenly, the remaining beasts tucked their tails between their legs and scuttled away, yelping. Aravis dropped the brand and spun around. She didn't know what do to for a split second—Hana was surrounded by puddle of crimson, and Cor was nearby, lying facedown in the snow. In one moment, she had turned Cor over on his back and checked his pulse (he was shaking from head to toe and had slipped back into his fever) and the next was crouching by Hana's side and using one of Cor's makeshift bandages to tie a tourniquet around her battered arm.

"Are they g-gone?" Hana asked through white lips. She was shaking, too.

Aravis nodded. "The horses scared them off. Come on—" She lifted Hana bodily from the snow and helped her over to the fire. "Don't look at your arm—_don't_—you're going to be just fine. _Don't look at it, Hana_! Hold your hand above your head. Good."

The bleeding was slowing a bit, so Aravis hurried over to where Cor lay. The heat of his fever had started to melt the snow around him, but his violent shivering had subsided. She breathed a sigh that was relief mixed with disappointment. He must have heard them screaming, she thought, running her fingers through his damp hair. At any rate, though, he couldn't stay sprawled in the snow, so she reached down and hoisted him into a sitting position, ignoring the pained groans that broke through his delirium.

"We need to go," she said, bracing him against a fallen log. "The wolves will come back now that the blood is fresh."

Hana was pale as paper, her face pinched with pain. "Whatever you think is best," she said faintly.

Aravis sat beside her and tore her ruined sleeve off, picking out the pieces of fabric that were stuck to the raw flesh. "That one got you good. How do you feel?"

"Bled out," Hana whispered. "Am I going to die?"

"Absolutely not. It's a bad bite, but I've seen worse, and they survived just fine. Don't worry about it."

Hana nodded weakly. "I'm so tired."

"No, that's bad. Don't let yourself sleep." Aravis reached for the tin of water that Raider had not knocked over and upended it over Hana's arm. Hana screamed and tried to wrench away, but Aravis held firmly onto her and used a clean scrap of cloth to wipe out the puncture wounds and shallow gashes left by the wolf's sharp teeth. "If this gets infected, you could be in danger," she said over Hana's sobs and gasps. "You have to keep it clean."

Finally, she wrapped the whole thing up in bandages that had been intended for Cor. Hana drew the injured member against her chest, trembling compulsively. "Eat some of that meat, Hana. And drink plenty of water while I pack up. You need to replace that blood."

Hana obeyed silently, and Aravis hurried around collapsing the tents and shoving them back in their oilcloth bags. The horses were skittish, and she had difficulty getting either of them to stand still enough to load up their saddles, but when Inga realized that Aravis was trying to leave, she froze until the packing was completed.

"All right, you stupid lug," Aravis said to Cor, "let's get you up. You'll freeze to death soon."

He resisted her attempts to clothe him with all the strength of a woozy kitten, and soon she had him up, putting almost all his weight on her, and staggering over to Raider, who snorted with joy. She wasn't entirely sure how she got him up, but before long he was slumped over the saddle, swathed in blankets so he looked like a hump-backed old woman.

"You're next, old girl," Aravis said to Hana. "Up you get."

"You're too tired," Hana protested weakly. "You ride."

"I will not have another delirious patient falling face-first in the snow," Aravis answered with false levity. "Get up on Inga or I'll lash you to the saddle."

Hana struggled onto the saddle, what little blood was left in her body draining from her face as she held her wounded arm against her chest.

"There you go," Aravis said with a nod. "You rest, but shout if something's wrong."

"I'll try."

Aravis nodded and lashed Raider's reins to Inga's saddle horn; this way, she could lead them both. Inga gently nibbled her fingers with her velvety lips as she reached up to take her reins. "You're a fine nag," she murmured to the horse, taking the first step of what promised to be a long journey. "A nag, yes, but a fine one nonetheless."

Inga grunted and dropped her head over Aravis's shoulder. Aravis's heart melted at the show of trust, and she rested her cheek against Inga's warm neck. It was better this way; no one could see her cry.

* * *

_A/N2: Y'all will never ask for a longer chapter again! Congrats for making it all the way through that massive chunk of text. That's why the update took so long! _

_ Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to Kairo833 in honor of her (half) birthday! ;)_

_Finally, I did warn everyone that this chapter would be bloody. Please note that things will slowly start to get a bit more gritty from here on out - if any of you have triggers (things that forcibly remind you of traumatic events and set off extreme responses), please do be cautious. I will try to warn you of potential dark content at the end of a previous chapter or the beginning of the next chapter, but I also don't want to give anything away. If you do have major triggers but want to continue reading the story, do let me know, and we'll work out a system to protect you. I can message you ahead of time to warn you, for example, or we can work out some other system that will make you as comfortable as possible. I love you guys, and I want everyone to feel safe while reading my fics._

_At any rate, there's no cause for immediate alarm, as the gritty stuff is still a ways off! :)_


	51. Chapter Fifty-One

_Chapter Fifty-One_

Archenland had never seemed so vast to Aravis before she attempted to cross its sweeping plains on foot. As she stumbled through snowdrifts that sometimes came up to her waist, clinging to Inga's bridle for balance, she realized just how massive the kingdom really was. It was one thing to cross it on horseback but quite another to feel every step, every ragged breath.

The sun rose what seemed like hours after they had left the campsite behind. Aravis thought the added light would help, but it glittered harshly off the fresh snow, blinding her and making her head ache like it had been cleft with an axe.

"Aravis, watch out," Hana said on more than one occasion, and she would look up just in time to avoid a low-hanging branch or sudden dip in the landscape.

They stopped for food a few times because Aravis's body kept threatening to give out. Her stomach and back were strong from months in the saddle, but her legs were not simply not able to withstand the strain she was putting on them. "Do you need to ride?" Hana asked, her pale lips thin with worry.

Aravis shook her head wordlessly. The last thing she needed was for Hana to collapse of exhaustion. She knew her own body and was fairly confident she could push herself to the limit without doing any damage, but Hana was small and in a delicate condition, and Aravis wasn't convinced that she would know when to stop.

"_Oh dear_!"

"What?" Aravis said, instinctively looking at Raider to see if Cor was all right.

"Your hand!" Hana reached out and seized Aravis's left wrist. "Oh, _Aravis_…"

Aravis looked down and swallowed her mouthful of meat with a gulp. "How—" Her hand was raw and crusted with dried blood, deep puncture wounds visible in the mangled skin. "No—_no_—how did I not feel that—" It must have happened when she fell backwards, she thought foggily. As she looked at it, though, the ache bore down on her like an oncoming storm; what had been a slight dull burning sensation that hovered just below the threshold of her consciousness was now a full-blown roar of pain. "_Ohhh_!"

Hana reached for her water skin. "Hold it out, Aravis. We have to clean it."

"No, no, it'll hurt—"

"That didn't stop you this morning!"

Aravis knew she was right. It didn't make extending her hand any easier, and she barely suppressed a scream as the cold water splashed over the wounds. "_Aaahh_—"

Hana found the last roll of stained bandages and gingerly wrapped Aravis's hand in it, wincing every time she jarred her injured arm. "You need to be careful. You won't help me or Cor by wearing yourself down or letting it get infected."

"I won't help any of us by getting us lost in the snow." Aravis inspected the bandage and cringed. "Are you finished eating? We should get on."

"I guess. Do you want to try and get Cor to eat?"

Aravis looked over at him; he was slumped over Raider's neck and breathing shallowly. Feeding him would mean pulling him out of the saddle and then trying to get him back up, an effort for which she no longer had the strength. "I can't anymore. Tonight."

Hana nodded understandingly and stood up with another wince. "Do you want to try to ride n—"

"No, no," Aravis interrupted. "I'm quite all right."

Hana pursed her lips, but soon they were going again. The first few miles were easier for Aravis now that she had gotten food, but such relief did not last for long. The wind picked up, blowing the powdery snow into the air and sweeping it along against their feet. To Aravis it felt like she was trying to walk through an icy brick wall; the horses' displeasure at the situation did not help matters, lacing their ears back and tugging sharply on the reins and tossing their heads.

"Stop it," Aravis snapped when Inga snorted and balked for what seemed like the hundredth time. She shook the nag's bridle for good measure. "You are not helping!"

Inga gave an indignant snort, and Aravis looked back at her. To her chagrin, it was Raider who had planted his hooves in the ground and refused to move. "Sorry," she told Inga grudgingly.

"Sorry, were you talking to me?" Hana asked.

"No, I was just—" _Talking to a horse? Cracking up now…_

Hana raised an eyebrow. "Should we stop again?"

"No, no. I want to get over that ridge before nightfall. The wind might be a bit better. Thump Raider for me, will you?"

Hana reached back with her good arm and gave Raider a solid thwap on the nose. The massive warhorse squealed with surprise and shook his head, nearly unseating poor incoherent Cor, then pricked his ears up when he saw Aravis and pranced up to her, nudging her shoulder for a treat.

"Go away, stupid creature," Aravis said testily, shoving his face away. When he tried again, Inga whipped her head around and nipped him hard on the neck.

"Is this what having children is going to be like?" Hana said drily as the caravan moved forward at a docile pace once again.

"Unfortunately. But look on the bright side, Hana, you'll be queen and have no shortage of wet nurses and governesses."

Hana huffed a very unladylike sigh. "I wish you would stop talking about that, Aravis."

"What, children? You're going to have to have at least one, you know, to take Cor's thro—"

"_That_!"

"Wh-what?"

"Talking about me being queen! You're _always_ going on about that, and I hate it!"

Aravis stopped and, holding on to her hood to keep it from blowing off her head, turned to look at Hana. Despite the cold, the blonde girl was flushed with agitation. "Oh, Hana, I…had no idea…I just thought I would prepare you for the marr—"

"I don't want to marry him!"

The pronouncement was startling. Aravis's cold-muddled brain couldn't quite comprehend it, and she stammered out, "You—you don't want to marry…Cor?"

Hana shook her head violently.

"B—but why not? He's handsome and kind and smart—why wouldn't you want to marry him? Is it because you're afraid of being queen?"

Hana looked affronted. "Hardly."

"Well…why, then?"

"I don't love him."

The idea was ludicrous coming from Hana, a girl who would probably have married the butcher's son in exchange for a free year's supply of meat for the inn had Cor not brought them to Wolfdell. Aravis laughed incredulously. "Is that a factor now? No one marries for love anymore."

"Then why didn't you marry Darrin?" Hana retorted, bright red spots blooming on her cheeks.

This brought Aravis up short and rendered her speechless. (Hana looked nervous.) "Let's keep going," she said shortly. "We'll talk about this later." She turned back and pulled on Inga's bridle until the horse snorted and tried to bite her.

* * *

They camped that night beside a frozen creek, their fire protected from the elements by the sloping banks and the high crest of the hill behind them. The last time they had camped by a creek, Aravis recalled as she absently stirred the leftover broth as it warmed up, Gyneth had tried to drown her. She looked out at the snow-covered surface and shivered deep inside, wondering what would have happened if the violet-eyed monster had succeeded. Would Cor have turned to Anvard? The fledgling year laws were flexible enough to allow the heir to return early under mitigating circumstances—would her death be enough?

"Are you all right?" Hana asked gently, startling Aravis from her musings.

"What? Oh, yes, just fine. Why?"

"The broth has been boiling for some time now."

Aravis blinked and looked at the pot. Sure enough, it was well past done, and she dished out a healthy portion for herself and Hana. They ate in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of Raider and Inga grunting and sighing to each other as they ate the oats Aravis had poured out for them.

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," Hana said at last, staring timidly into her bowl. "About Cor. I didn't mean to snap."

Aravis looked over at the tent where Cor lay shivering despite his many layers. "It's all right. We're all tired and hungry and frightened. I know you didn't mean it."

Hana fiddled with her spoon. "The thing is…I did. I did mean it."

"Oh. I see."

"I meant all of it. I love Cor, yes—I mean, in that sweet way, like how I love my father or my friends—but I don't want to marry him."

Aravis surveyed her over her bowl of broth. "Why not? I know you don't love him, but there has to be more than that. You agreed to it initially."

"I know."

"Well?"

"I can't tell you."

"What? Why not?"

Hana colored with agitation again, but her voice was calm. "I just can't, Aravis. My father always said that a secret's potential to get out increases with every person you tell."

"Do you not trust me?" Aravis said, stung.

"No, no, no, it's not that."

"Then _what_? Hana, you clearly want to tell me, or you wouldn't have brought it up."

"I_ can't_! It's—it's—it's too private."

"Oh, now it just sounds like something awful. Are you already married?"

Hana did not catch Aravis's attempt at humor, and she blanched. "No, Aravis! Of course not! I just…I wish you would stop talking about 'when I'll be queen,' because Cor listens to you. He does whatever you say. And if you keep saying he's going to marry me, he will, and I don't want that."

"He does _not_ do whatever I say."

"Yes, Aravis, he does. Even if he does something contrary, you know as well as I do that he will eventually come around and do it anyway."

Aravis flushed. "He knows I give good advice."

Hana shrugged and sighed, "Whatever the reason, every time you mention our marriage around him, the more likely he is to choose me. And I can't turn him down—he's the king. Or will be."

"You can do whatever you want to him. I do."

Hana snorted.

"Fine," Aravis said, setting down her bowl. "I'll stop talking about it. But you have to know that my duties involve nagging him about brides. The king told me so _expressly_."

"Then pick someone else," Hana replied desperately. "Janey. Or Ragna."

"Not Ragna. I'm trying to keep her _away_ from him. She's far too young, far too naïve, and not to mention completely unsuited to rule this kingdom."

Hana looked pityingly at her. "Like all the rest of us, Aravis."

Aravis huffed.

"We'll talk about this later," Hana said gently, ladling out more broth and handing it to her. "Perhaps over Christmas, when we've all had time to feel better. Why don't you go tend to Cor? He was lucid for a bit last night, wasn't he?"

Aravis accepted the bowl of broth and rose from the fallen log she had been sitting on. "Fine. But I'm taking first watch tonight."

"No, you are absolutely not. I will—I've got the horses on my side, remember?"

Inga whickered as if she was agreeing.

Aravis smiled weakly and ducked down into the tent with a stubby candle. It was a bit warmer in this tent than in the last one, thanks to their protected location, but Cor was still nothing more than a shivering mass of blankets and furs. She peeled them off, one by one, until he lay on the bearskin in nothing but trousers. The gashes on his shoulders were no better—in fact, she realized with a sinking feeling, they were worse. All of them were swollen with grey-green pus and surrounded by sneaking tendrils of inflammation. It wrenched her heart, and she did her best to clean it and cover it with a clean bandage, wrapping the ends under his arms.

"At least the swelling is going down on your face," she grunted as she rolled him back.

"Ara…Aravis?"

Her name had never sounded so sweet. She was hovering over his face in a split second, her heart in her throat and her hands smoothing the hair out of his face. "Cor? I'm right here."

"Aravis?"

"Yes, Cor," she said, choking back a wave of emotion as he opened his eyes, blinking blearily. "It's me. You're all right now. You're safe."

He reached up and touched her chin with callused fingers. "Aravis, I…"

"Yes, Cor?" she said, holding his hot hand against her cold cheek.

"I…I think Corin has been using my parchment for paper hats again."

Her heart dropped. "What?"

"Lewin is going to be so cross if he knows we're skipping the riding lesson."

She sighed and sat back. He was locked firmly in the fog of fever, thinking they were children again. "You're right, Cor," she said softly. "We don't want Lewin to find out. Let's eat luncheon quickly."

He downed the broth easily this time, but Aravis noticed a strange greyness to his pinched features. His skin was papery and his lips chapped and cracked, too. "You look terrible," she said lightly, as if it were a joke.

"Father had me up all night working on that paperwork…"

"Yes, of course. I quite forgot."

He rambled on and on as Aravis sat by his side, stroking his hair. She didn't bother to hide her concern—what was the point? She preferred his silence; at least it meant he was sleeping or otherwise conserving his energy to fight the fever. This talkativeness, his sentences slurred and coming in and out of sense, sounded to her like a dying horse, wheezing and staggering about in its stall as it slipped closer and closer to the end.

But she let him talk. Even nonsensical Cor was better than no Cor at all, and she gazed down at him as he told her about the time he captained a pirate ship. Eventually, he forgot who she was, telling her all about the adventures he had with Aravis, dragon slayer of Tashbaan.

"You should try to sleep," she told him at last. "You need your strength for more adventures with Aravis."

"Tomorrow we're going to do battle with the yellow-eyed serpent of the north," he agreed blithely.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek before pulling his covers back up. "Of course, Cor."

As she shifted to get up and leave, Cor grabbed her arm with a strength that surprised her. When she looked back at him, she saw that he was staring at her with big eyes, his freckled face solemn as an undertaker's. "What is it?" she asked, afraid he was about to take a turn for the worst.

"If you see Aravis," he said seriously and with great effort, "please tell her to come see me. I love her."

She wanted to slap him across the face until he snapped out of it. _Cor, it's me! _I'm _Aravis! Don't you see me? Have you forgotten me already? Wake up! Wake up now!_ "Yes," she said instead. "Yes, of course. She loves you, too."

Cor nodded with a blank smile and curled up under the blankets. It did not take him long to slip into a shallow sleep, and when his breathing had evened out, Aravis slipped from the tent.

"How is he?" Hana asked. Then she caught sight of Aravis's face. "Oh, oh no. Oh, dear. What's happened?"

"It's like a horrid nightmare," Aravis choked out. "I keep trying to wake myself up, but I can't—I can't—"

And then she was sobbing. The tears wrenched themselves out of her with wracking spasms, and she wrapped her arms around her ribs to keep them from bursting apart with every breath. Hana rushed to her side and put her arms around her, cooing and tsking in the vague, sympathetic way mothers comfort infants.

"He _has_ to get better," Aravis forced out through clenched teeth. "He _has_ to wake up—he _has_ to remember me—"

"He will, he will," Hana replied fervently. "How could he forget you?"

"What if he doesn't recover, Hana?"

"Don't think like that."

"I can't help it—"

"You _have_ to."

Aravis stepped back from Hana and, shuddering, forced herself to regain composure. "I know," she said, scrubbing her face with her sleeve. "You're right. There's no use in wasting my energy like this."

"I didn't mean that," Hana said gently. "You have so much on your shoulders—you have to release it somehow."

"Weeping and moping around like a child won't solve anything."

"Perhaps not, but you'll feel better."

Aravis laughed humorlessly. "I'll worry about feeling better when we've survived the journey to Zohra."

Hana said nothing, and Aravis blew out the candle and went to bed.

* * *

The next morning, Cor was still delirious. Hana paled as she watched him struggle up onto Raider, and the grim set of her mouth did not inspire confidence in Aravis, either. "He looks…better," she said unconvincingly.

Aravis just looked at her.

They had only been walking for a few hours when the wind shifted and the horses pricked up their ears. "What is it now?" Aravis said testily as Inga stopped suddenly and looked off in the distance, head high and nostrils flared to catch the wind. "Please, no more wolves."

Inga snorted and pranced to the side, pulling against the hold Aravis had on her bridle. Aravis pulled back and tried to tug her forward. "Stop it, you nag," she snarled, but Hana shushed her suddenly.

"_What_?"

"I hear horses!"

Aravis loosened her grasp on the bridle and listened intently. A few moments passed with nothing but the empty sighing of the wind to hear; then, softly, there came the echoes of a whinny. Inga and Raider snorted in response and whinnied back.

"No, no," Aravis said, her blood running cold. "The riders could be anyone—bandits, or mercenaries, or Finnii—"

Inga yanked on the bridle so hard that she dragged Aravis a few steps as she and Raider moved toward the sound. "_Bad_ nag," Aravis said sharply.

The sound of the horses over the crest of the next hill was growing louder. Raider tossed his head and bugled loudly, and a moment later there was a shrill reply. Inga shook free of Aravis's grasp and shoved her hard with her snow-dusted nose, driving her towards the sound.

"I think we should trust them," Hana said. "They've been right before…"

"They're _horses_," Aravis responded, growing hot with fear and desperation. "We're in no position to fight, Hana! Cor is barely staying in the saddle as it is—"

"Look!" Hana said.

Aravis instinctively looked in the direction she was pointing. Over the crest of the hill came a small band of horses and riders, the mounts shaggy with winter coats and the horsemen thick with blankets. They carried no banner, but Aravis would have recognized Ram and his furry black steed anywhere.

"It's them," Hana said quite unnecessarily, bursting into tears. "We're _saved_…"

The snowy ground warped and spun around her as Aravis was caught unawares by a rush of anger. Her thick cloak was suddenly too warm as she began to sweat. Now _they come to find us. _Now_ they decide they were wrong. _Now_ they're here to take the credit!_

As the band whooped and waved to them and spurred their horses down the gentle slope, the pretty deer-colored palfrey that Corin rode pulled away from the others and tossed her head as her rider rushed her down. Aravis felt sick at the sight of him, the corners of her vision turning red.

"Aravis," Corin sputtered, nearly falling from the palfrey and stumbling towards her. "Aravis, I am so, so sorry—you were right—I realized too late—"

Somehow, she had let go of Inga's bridle and was striding through the snow to meet him. He looked properly mortified, pale and drawn in the face.

"I was drunk, Aravis," he stammered, "and I thought—I thought—"

Aravis punched him in the nose.

"_You would have let him rot_," she screamed. The blood on his face only made her angrier—how dare he bleed when Cor had bled so much worse—and she shoved him as hard as she could. "Do you realize what you've done_? _What you've allowed to happen_? _You've _destroyed_ him—you've _damaged_ him—_you've nearly killed him_—"

Someone grabbed her from behind, holding her back, but she was too far gone in her rage to care, kicking and struggling with all her flagging strength. "_All of you—treason! Murderers! Allowing Cor to die in a slaver's cell—damn you all!_"

Suddenly, Rhys was looming in front of her, and she spat in his face. "And _you_—serpent! Traitor! Monster! You are—"

He caught her chin in one ice-cold hand and shoved a vial against her mouth so hard she tasted blood. She screamed and struggled and bit, but the hands restraining her were strong as iron, and soon a bitter taste mingled with the salty warmth of her blood. Her limbs went slack as her vision warped. Whatever Rhys had given her was rendering her muscles worthless; panicking, she tried to move, to scream, but even her throat ceased to function as she sank quickly into an abyss of living nightmares.


	52. Chapter Fifty-Two

_Chapter Fifty-Two_

Aravis came back to consciousness with a rush of terror. As disoriented as she was, it took her a long moment to realize she was sitting straight up in her tent, holding on to the bearskin beneath her with white knuckles. It was dark and quiet, the only sign of life being the flickering orange light of a campfire outside.

As her heart rate slowed, she slumped forward with her head in her hands, trying to stop the dizziness and remember what had happened and what hadn't. Her memories were clouded with things that seemed only half-real. What had Rhys _given_ her? She breathed deeply a few times, clutching her blankets and pushing against the hard ground to remind herself that the world was steady. After a few minutes, she wrapped a woolen blanket around her shoulders and exited the tent, staggering through the shin-deep snow.

Suddenly, her vision warped and she lost her balance, but a pair of sturdy, hairy arms caught her before she fell and guided her to a solid seat by the fire. "Ram?" she breathed. "By the lion, it's really you—what's going on, Ram? Please, tell me—"

"Drink this," he hissed, pushing a tin cup containing a small amount of amber liquid into her hands. "Drink it quickly."

She obeyed unquestioningly and swallowed the whiskey, the strength of the liquor making her nose and throat burn. "_Ugh_."

"How do you feel?"

She cleared her throat a few times, blinked, and shook her head as the world came back into focus and heat rushed through her veins. "Oh. A little better, I think," she said, looking into his ruddy face.

"Do you think you can stomach some food?"

"A thousand times, _yes_."

He got up and bustled about for a few moments, then returned with a thick slice of bread and a hunk of cheese and some dried beef. Aravis could barely contain herself as she watched him sprinkle salt onto the cheese before handing it to her; the moment the food was in her hands, she was eating it, the sweet bread and thick cheese a marvelous improvement over gamey elk stew.

When she'd finished, Ram handed her a mug of tea that he added a small splash of whiskey to. "Why the whiskey?" she asked, sipping gingerly at the hot drink.

"It'll flush the hallucinogen out of your system faster," Ram replied, pouring himself one. "Rhys gave you a sedative this morning, a potent one."

She took another drink of the tea, letting it coat her throat as she swallowed. "Why?"

"He said you were a danger to us."

"I'll admit, I lost my temper."

"Enough to require a forced sedative?"

Ram looked furious, and she put her tea down for a moment. "Why did he give it to me, then? Ram? What is it you're not telling me?"

He looked at her, the orange light of the fire blending in with his red beard. "Plenty, milady."

She sighed. "Then tell me what happened. The last I remember, someone grabbed me from behind."

"That was Darrin," Ram answered. "He was afraid you would continue to beat Prince Corin."

"Oh, dear," she hissed, cringing with guilt. "I'd forgotten about that. Is he all right?"

"You gave him a spectacularly purple nose, but he's none the worse for wear."

"Good. What next? Was Hana sedated, too?"

"No. When you were quiet, Hana said she felt faint, so we helped her down from Inga. And in fact, we had more trouble from her than from you."

"_Hana_ gave you trouble?"

"No—Inga did. She took a chunk out of Rhys's arm when he reached up to take her bridle, and she refused to let him get anywhere near you. Dor had to hobble her before we could get camp set up properly."

Aravis turned and looked where he was pointing; sure enough, there was Inga with the rest of her horses, her front legs tied close together with a length of leather. She looked as happy as Aravis felt, her ears so flat against her head they seemed nonexistent.

"To be safe, though," Ram continued, "I saw to your hand, not Rhys."

She looked down at her hand for the first time—it was clean, and the bandage around it was white as snow and pinned carefully. "Oh, Ram, thank you. Did you also help Hana? She had such a terrible bite—"

"Of course I did. Rhys said he was too busy with Prince Cor to worry about the two of you, so Prince Corin and I patched you up."

"Is she all right?"

"Just fine. Most of the damage was superficial—it looked much worse than it was."

Aravis fiddled with the bandage on her hand. "And Cor?" she said, trying to sound casual. "How is he?"

"Rhys said his shoulders are deeply infected. He isn't sure if…"

"If what?"

"If he can get them to heal. His words, not mine."

"That's pure stupidity," Aravis spat. Ram shushed her. "They're not _that_ infected—they can't be. I kept them clean myself."

"I could tell."

She sighed and rubbed the space between her brows. "So what else happened after Rhys drugged me? Did Hana tell you everything that happened?"

Ram nodded slowly. "I think so. She described your tarkheena charade—"

"That technically wasn't a charade," Aravis interrupted quickly, "as I _am_ a tarkheena."

"—And how you found Prince Cor in the cell—that he was shouting for you, milady—how you bought him and then got him out of Shadesport."

"I have a few of your coins left over, Ram. I'll give them back tomorrow."

He waved a massive hand. "She told us of your hunting, and the wolves, too—how you got the bite on your hand. Did she leave anything out?"

Aravis rubbed her temples. "No, I don't think so. She mentioned how Cor was delirious most of the time?"

"Yes."

"Then that's all that matters, really."

"She also mentioned that throughout the ordeal, you had the bearing of a queen."

Aravis felt her face grow hot. "A strange way of putting it, don't you think?"

"No, I don't, really. Aside from your unfortunate slip this morning—and I think we can safely attribute that oversight to fatigue and the effects of snow on the mind—you have been calm and collected about the whole thing. I doubt Hana's estimation of your comportment is very far off."

"It is," Aravis replied grimly. "I was on the verge of panicking the whole bloody time—and I made some blindingly stupid decisions along the way. Dressing game mere feet from my campsite? What did I expect?"

"Royal comportment has nothing to do with being perfect, milady, as you well know. You made quick decisions as best as you could and then saw them through. _That_ is noble bearing."

Aravis smiled blandly, humoring him.

He stretched. "You might want to look in on His Highness before you go back to bed. He was asking for you earlier."

"Yes, he was telling me all about his romps with Aravis the dragon slayer of Tashbaan." She laughed humorlessly.

Ram smiled. "That must have been when he was delirious. He told Rhys he remembers nothing about the experience."

Aravis's blood ran cold, then hot. "He—he told Rhys?" she stammered, almost dropping her tea. "He was lucid?"

"After a while, yes. His fever came down."

"And he was still…"

"Lucid? Yes, last I saw him. Only, Rhys doesn't want him to see any visitors. Cor was quite angry with him and spent the better part of an hour shouting for you, but you were still under the effects of the—oh, dear, you've tipped over your tea."

Aravis, who had sprung to her feet and seized a stubby candle in the middle of Ram's sentence, was already to Cor's tent. For a moment, she crouched outside with her hand on the flap, hesitating, but then she pulled it aside and poked her head in. Cor was sleeping quietly, stretched out under a few blankets; she didn't bring the candle in for fear of waking him up, but she watched him just long enough to reassure herself that he was doing well. At last, she drew back and was about to stand up when she heard him stir.

"Aravis?" he said groggily.

She didn't have a chance to answer. In a flash, he had thrown aside his blankets, seized her arm, and pulled her so hard against him that she gasped and dropped the candle. "I'm sorry, Aravis, I'm so sorry," he choked out, his arms like iron bands around her.

Aravis could barely breathe, but she didn't care; she clung to him like she was drowning, his skin warm against her cheek. For a long time, she couldn't speak—even if she'd been able to swallow her tears, there was nothing that would have been good enough to say—but it didn't matter to either of them.

"Rhys said—you were angry with me—because of everything I put you through," Cor gritted out, his breath tickling her ear.

She shook her head. "No, no, never, Cor."

"He said you didn't want to see me—"

"I did! I tried—Rhys sedated me, he gave me something and I only just woke up—"

He buried his face in her shoulder, a gentle tremor running through his arms. "I'm so sorry—for walking out on you like that—"

"Ssh," she said against his hair. "Let's not talk about that. We both said things we didn't mean, and that's that."

"But I _am_ sorry."

"Then so am I. We're even now."

He nodded and gave a shuddering sigh that ruffled her hair. "Oh, Aravis. Thank you—thank you for everything you've done for me. I'm sorry I made you worry, made you steal—"

"Steal?" Aravis sat back, looking into his shadowy face. It was dark, but she could see that the bruising on his nose was down and that the cuts on his forehead and lips were puckered and scabbed over. "I didn't steal anything."

"You stole _me_. From that tarkheena. Wretched woman with her money…"

He spat the word 'tarkheena' out with such venom that it took Aravis aback for a moment before the absurdity of the whole situation made itself clear. She laughed a little and took Cor's face in her hands. "Cor—_Cor_," she said, stemming his flow of vitriol for a moment. "That was me. _I _was the tarkheena."

He gaped at her. "But I was—"

"I purchased you, Cor. And I free you now. See?"

"But what about—you are—"

"Well, I guess I am fire and ice and rage."

He was silent for a long moment. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you—why did you do that for me?"

The fact that he needed to ask broke Aravis's heart, and she stalled for a moment by setting the guttering candle up properly. Light flooded the tent. This was a bad idea; now she could see that Cor's brilliant blue eyes, the ones she had been so desperate to catch a glimpse of, were directed at her, full of confusion and pain and fear. "Because," she said lightly, fixing his collar, "I can never bear to let you have the last word."

He laughed, squeezing her arm, and relief flooded her with warmth. "I should have known."

"Besides," she went on, "you know what Corin says. Love is being fond of someone even when they do everything they can to not deserve it."

"Wise bastard," he mumbled, and Aravis had to laugh, smoothing his unshaven cheek with the back of her hand. All the fear, all the pain, all the heartache she had endured to get him out of Shadesport seemed suddenly worth it, now that he was sitting with her, smiling.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," she said softly. "You gave me quite a fright with your fever."

"Rhys said I was incoherent the whole time."

"You were, mostly. Except for the wolves. Do you remember?"

"Vaguely," he said, frowning.

"No matter. You're doing all right now, and that's all that I care about."

"You look a little worse for wear, though," he said, brushing the pad of his thumb across her lip. "What happened there?"

She automatically reached up to touch the spot and found it hot and swollen, a ridge of scab marring the otherwise smooth surface of her lower lip. "Ah. That's from this morning, when Rhys sedated me. I'm afraid I didn't go quietly."

"And _this_—"

Aravis realized a second too late that she had used her bandaged hand. As Cor reached for it, she instinctively recoiled, folding her arms so her hands would be hidden from his sight. The idea of him seeing them—her cracked fingertips, chapped knuckles, and callused palms—turned her stomach. "It's nothing," she said aloud. "From the wolves, that's all. I got off easy. You should see Hana's arm."

Cor ignored her protests and tried to draw her back against him, but she resisted his efforts. "Cor, please."

"Why can't I see your hands?"

"They're cold."

"Then I'll warm them up."

"I don't want you to."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

She shook her head. "They're—nothing."

He peeled her arms away from her body one at a time and held her hands in his. "The bandage looks clean. What are you trying to hide?"

"My hands," she burst out. "They're a—a _laborer's_ hands. I don't look like a tarkheena anymore, Cor—Torial from the auction house nearly found me out because of them. They're—they're _ugly_ and dirty and painful and—"

Gently, Cor turned her unbandaged hand over and carefully but firmly kissed her callused palm. The motion was so unexpectedly intimate that Aravis was stunned into silence. "Don't be ashamed of your hands, Aravis," he told her. "They've accomplished more and done better work than most people ever will."

She melted back into his arms. "Oh, I _missed_ you, Cor."

"You have no idea," he sighed, pressing his forehead against hers. "When I realized I would be sold into slavery, my first thought…I was afraid…I thought I'd never see you again. And Aravis, there's so much we haven't said yet. So much we haven't done."

"Like what?" she asked.

"For instance, I owe you three stories, don't I?"

Guilt and regret settled into Aravis's stomach like a brick, and she pulled away from him a bit. "I suppose."

"Do you not want me to read to you?" he asked, the smile fading from his face. "Aravis, whatever I said, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's not you," she said hastily.

"What happened?"

She brushed a lock of golden hair off of his forehead. "I had to sell the book, Cor."

The sentence clearly did not register with him. "Sell it…?"

"I had to sell…quite a lot in order to scrape up enough gilds to…get you out," Aravis said softly. _No tears this time, Aravis. None._ "Without the book, I would never have been able to…"

"You sold…"

"Almost everything. I'm wearing the only frock I have left."

Cor sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Aravis, you…I…you are _brilliant_. Have I ever told you that? You are absolutely magnificent." He reached up and brushed a curl back from her cheek. "Sometimes I wonder what the hell you see in me that you're willing to stay for. You could be the Tisra someday."

"The weather here is nicer," she replied.

Cor's smile, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, warmed Aravis's heart, and she took his face in her hands again. "Cor, you _can't_ manage things on your own. No one can. Don't try to take everything on your own shoulders. Please, let me help you—give me some of the burden to carry." She rubbed her thumbs against the rough stubble on his unshaven cheeks. "Nim wouldn't have wanted you to carry guilt like you're doing. It's not healthy. That's why your father wants you to find a bride before you're king—it's hard to rule alone."

He nodded, his gaze abashed but unwavering.

Suddenly, the flap opened with a rush of cold air, and Aravis scuttled back a bit. "The watch is changing soon, milady," Ram said. "So unless you want to be caught in His Highness's tent—"

"Point taken, Ram," she said, blushing. "I'll be out in a moment."

Ram nodded and retreated, dropping the flap down again. Cor looked sheepish. "I wish you'd stay," he said quietly.

"I would, but Rhys is on the warpath. He didn't take kindly to me yesterday, so I doubt he would be too keen to find me in here, especially when he told Ram no visitors."

"What? No visitors?"

"You're lucky I consider myself above the law. Goodnight, Cor."

He dragged her in for one last embrace, and Aravis found it hard to let go of him after the appropriate time had passed. "You need to sleep," she said softly, kissing the scab on his forehead. "Break that fever for good. You're so terribly thin…"

"Christmas is coming," he replied with a grin.

"Go to sleep, Cor."

"Another kiss first."

She swooped down and kissed him soundly first on one cheek and then the other. "_Goodnight_." And she slipped from the tent before he could convince her to stay.

Ram inclined his head when she passed him. "How is he?"

"Much better," she said with a smile that refused to dissolve. "Much, much better."


	53. Chapter Fifty-Three

_Chapter Fifty-Three_

Aravis awoke naturally from a sound sleep for the first time in what felt like ages. Someone had dragged another bearskin over her during the night, and she sighed happily as she yawned and stretched luxuriously under it. A good night's sleep was rare these days. She wrapped the bearskin around her shoulders and toddled out of her tent with a smile. The first person she saw was Cor, who was bundled up warmly next to the fire with a mug of tea under his chin. He grinned when he caught her eye.

"Just in time for porridge," Janey exclaimed from her spot near the fire. The fat beauty jumped up and ran over to embrace Aravis, who was surprised to find herself reciprocating eagerly. "We thought you'd sleep for days!"

"Rhys tried to make me," Aravis answered pointedly, but she tacked a giggle on at the end. The others chuckled at this, but Ram met her eye over the crackling fire. "Where's Corin?" she asked.

"He's nursing his sore nose," Hana chirped. Aravis looked at her—she was pale but alert, wearing her cloak over a thick bandage that swathed her arm and half her shoulder. "You really gave him something to think about."

Findora raised her eyebrows at Aravis, who shrugged.

"Oooh, but you were so sorely missed," Janey sighed. "The company just wasn't the same without you!"

"I sorely missed Romith's cooking," Aravis replied as she reached for the bowl that was offered to her.

"Hana says you felled an elk," said Findora.

Aravis nodded, mouth full of porridge. "A calf, though," she said as Cor pulled her down next to him. "Orphaned—it wasn't a crack kill by any stretch of the imagination."

"She put the arrow right between its ribs," said Hana.

Darrin and Romith expressed their admiration, which Aravis received with a knowing smile. They were all trying their hardest to make up for their treatment of her earlier, and she knew it—but it was hard to feel resentment when Cor had his arm around her and was laughing at the light-hearted teasing that was occasionally thrown his way.

"You should eat more," she told him. His color was better, but there was a marked pinched look about his face that indicated a lack of food.

"I'm full," he responded, but reached for another bowl of porridge and tucked in.

Once he was done and everyone was full, Cor cleared his throat. "We should set out for Zohra today," he said, standing. "I apologize to everyone for the delay I caused, but you should be aware that winter is coming, and if we get caught in the snows, it could be very dangerous."

"Sire," Rhys wheedled, "I do not think you are strong enough to ride—"

"Then lash me to my saddle," Cor interrupted briskly. "Darrin, you have visited Viscount Sidrat before. How far would you say we are from Zohra?"

"I would estimate no more than a week," Darrin replied. "But if we get caught in the snows, it could be much longer."

"All the more reason not to sit around idly," Cor said with a pointed look at Rhys. "Let's get going as soon as we can—we're burning daylight."

Aravis had very little to pack up, having sold most of her belongings in Shadesport. When her things were rolled up tightly and buckled to Inga's saddle, she turned to Raider, who was nosing her pockets for a treat.

"What have you done to my warhorse, woman?" Cor asked as she fed the massive animal from the palm of her hand and scratched its forelock like it was a pony.

"Raider likes me," she said defensively, scratching the spot under its chin where the bridle strap had rubbed the hair down. "I take care of him."

"He looks like a puppy, following you around like that."

Aravis laughed and kissed Raider's dark, velvety nose. "Fine, then. Take him back and treat him like a destrier. He's a hack pony at heart, though, I assure you."

Cor snorted rather like Raider. "Hold his head, then, while I tack him up."

Aravis took hold of Raider's bridle with one hand and fed him a bit of sugar with the other while Cor rubbed down the waterstained saddle. "He was so good while you were sick," she said conversationally, letting the massive horse lick her fingers clean. "Followed Inga like a lamb."

"Father always said he was a good beast," Cor answered. He shook his blankets off and stood up, taking a deep breath before lifting the heavy saddle. "I remember when he decided—" He broke off with a strangled yelp and dropped the saddle.

"Oh, Cor," Aravis sighed, hurrying to his aid. "You shouldn't have tried to lift that yet! Let me see your shoulders."

He sat down without protest and put his face in his hand as Aravis gingerly lifted his shirt up. While the sharpness of his shoulderblades was alarming, what worried Aravis most was the state of the gashes. They looked just as sore and swollen as they had when he was fevered, as though they had never been cleaned or treated, and some of them had broken open when he lifted the saddle and were leaking blood and fluid. She _tsked_. "Try to rest for a bit, Cor," she told him, kissing the top of his head. "I'll be right back."

The campsite was full of activity, so she slipped unnoticed amongst the luggage and found Rhys's ubiquitous stained herb satchel. From it she drew a roll of bandages, a pouch of powdered calendula, a few dried poplar buds, and a pinch of balsam bark. It was rudimentary healing, to be sure, but something was better than nothing, and the small voice in the back of her head warned her not to ask Rhys.

Cor was hunched over in the same manner when she returned, and she set to work running lukewarm water over the open wounds, using the roll of clean bandages to scrub out the pus while he tried not to shout in pain. When that was done, she packed each one full of herbs and wrapped clumsy bandages over the worst of them. "You have to be careful," she told him as she pulled his shirt back down and replaced his blanket. "If you let those cuts get infected again, your fever will come back."

He nodded wordlessly, what little color had returned to his face now gone.

She stroked his hair for a moment. "Let me get Raider ready for you, all right? He'll be good for me."

Cor nodded again.

So Aravis tacked Raider up and buckled the luggage satchels to the saddle, making sure to leave the stirrups loose so it wouldn't hurt Cor's back. "Just rest now until everyone's ready," she told him gently. "I'll get your cloak."

As she went to leave, though, he grabbed hold of her arm, his hand rough against the soft skin of her wrist, and kissed the palm of her hand. He didn't say anything—he didn't need to, either. That, and the expression on his face as he looked up at her, was enough for her. She smiled and squeezed his hand.

All was not well in the rest of the company, however. As she made her way back from the fire, Cor's cloak in hand, Aravis heard a snatch of a whispered argument coming from the far end of the tree they had lashed the horses to.

"—Your flesh and blood—"

"Yes, Hana, you're right. But please, _please_ hear me out—"

"I've heard all I need to! Do you have any idea—any at all—what you put Cor and Aravis through?"

"Is everything all right?" Aravis asked, feeling entitled to interrupt since they had mentioned her name.

Hana and Corin jumped guilty and turned different shades of puce. Corin, who indeed sported a brilliant swollen nose, dropped his gaze when his eyes met Aravis's. "Aravis, I want to apolo—"

"No," Hana said shrilly, cutting him off. "Corin was just leaving."

Corin looked at her, then ducked his head and hurried off like a kicked dog.

"Oh, dear," said Aravis awkwardly. "Is there something I—"

"There's nothing to talk about," Hana answered, turning to her shaggy horse and brushing its withers repeatedly.

Aravis nodded slowly and turned back to Cor and Raider, who was nibbling Inga's neck as she chewed oats with a lazy expression. Cor's color looked a little better already, and Aravis draped his cloak over his shoulders as carefully as she could. "Have you spoken to Corin yet?" she said.

"No, I've scarcely seen him since I came around. Why?"

"He didn't let me come back and look for you until we were already well away from Shadesport."

"What the h—"

"To be fair, he was quite drunk. I think he feels terrible about it—"

"As well he should! He was busy getting sloshed while I was—" He broke off abruptly, the words seeming too painful to say aloud.

"You should talk to him. He looks absolutely dreadful."

"Let him stew in his own juices for a while. Maybe it'll finally get through that thick skull of his."

She tapped a knuckle on the side of his head. "It runs in the family, you know."

He sighed. "Don't remind me. Now, would you help me up on Raider? Damn horse is so tall."

Together they got him up on the saddle, and he squirmed gingerly before reaching forward and patting Raider's muscular neck. "Good old boy. Glad to see you took care of him."

"Well, it's been decided that if you die en route, I have first claim on him," Aravis replied archly. She clambered up onto Inga, who apparently had decided that her mistress had been coddled quite enough and so deserved a solid nip on the arm. "_Ouch_!"

"Control your beast," Cor said with mock sternness.

Aravis wrinkled her nose at him, rubbing her sore shoulder. "Oi, you, shut up."

"Excuse you, I was speaking to Inga."

The mare shook her head and snorted as if in laughter.

"Really, you two," Aravis sighed. "Thick as thieves."

Raider whinnied and tossed his head, keen to be included in the conversation, but the noise made the other horses prick up their ears and strain against their ties. It was time to head out, and soon the campsite was nothing more than a circle of melted snow with a smoking pile of charcoal in the center. Aravis was not sad to leave it behind—indeed, how could she be sad about anything? She had a fresh horse beneath her, a clean bandage on her hand, and Cor on her left who had decided that the best way to pass the time was by telling a long stream of ridiculous jokes. _No_, she thought, _I'm not sad at all_.

* * *

_A/N: Well, to bastardize a phrase from Mr. Lewis himself, the holidays are over and the term has begun. Hence the fluffiness of the chapter—real class started for me on Monday again, so the updates that have been gushing forth from the wellspring of my inspiration will dry to a trickle. Oh, well—it's my goal to finish this story before the end of this coming summer, as I hope to spend the fall of 2013 studying in Hungary! (So if you live in the Budapest area and want to meet up next fall, drop me a line!) _

_Not to worry, though. I WILL finish this fic in a timely fashion, as I already have another fic idea starting to germinate in the rich soil of my brain! Hope you all will join me there when it's time! :)_

_~SH_


	54. Chapter Fifty-Four

_Chapter Fifty-Four_

The snow started that day. At first Aravis didn't notice it; the wind was strong, and she had her hood pulled up over her face to protect it. Soon, though, the wind brought with it bits of moisture, and, confused, she lifted her head to see snowflakes the size of marbles drifting down from the sky with an urgency that belied their fluffy shapes. They covered the ground quickly, and Aravis found herself ruffling Inga's tangled mane on more than one occasion to keep the flakes from accumulating. The ground, what little of it was visible after the last snowfall, soon disappeared.

By nightfall, the company was struggling: the shaggy ponies that carried the luggage and cooking implements were up to their shoulders in cold, wet snow, and the heels of Aravis's boots were soaking from dragging in the snow that was nearly up to Inga's belly.

"We have to stop," Darrin shouted, his voice carrying up to her on the wind. "It's getting dangerous."

"There's no good place to camp yet," Cor shouted back, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "We're too exposed here. Let's make for the crest of the next hill, see what there is."

As much as Aravis wanted to stop, she knew Cor was right—out on the plains, they were completely open to ambush, not a rock or tree nearby to take shelter by. If their tents were blown over in the night, they would be subject to the elements and worse off than they already were.

Inga gave a half-hearted buck when Aravis nudged her forward. The ascent was slippery, as there seemed to be ice in patches; Dor's sweet old mare put her full weight on one and crashed to the ground, squealing in fear as Dor pitched into the snow, swearing mightily.

Finally, though, they were staggering over the crest. Below them, hardly visible through the falling snow, was a dense forest of evergreens, dark and ominous in the light of dusk. "What do you think, Aravis?" Cor rasped. "Should we risk it?"

Aravis was about to shake her head—the darkness worried her—but she caught a glimpse of Cor's face, pale and drawn and with a slight bluish tint to his lips. "Yes," she said immediately. "Y—we need to rest."

He nodded wordlessly and led the way down the incline. Inga snorted and laced her ears back, and Aravis was convinced the beast tried her hardest to make the descent as miserable for her mistress as possible.

The forest seemed taller and darker when they stood in front of it. It was as densely snowy as the plains, but at least the wind was a little less, though it blew through the branches with a lonely whistle. She shivered.

"Let's go in a little further, find a clearing," Cor called. He broke off with a cough and emerged from it with a yawn while they waited for the others to join them.

"Wait," came Janey's voice from the back of the column. "Wait!"

Aravis twisted around in the saddle. Janey was standing with Findora, trying to tug Nim's old horse forward toward the trees, but Findora had such a tight grip on the reins that the poor animal couldn't move. "What's the matter?" she asked, spurring Inga into a sloppy canter to join them.

"She doesn't want to go into the forest," Janey answered grimly.

Findora's face was white beneath her hood.

"We need to," said Cor, who was just behind Aravis. "It's not safe for us out here."

"It's not safe for us in there, either," Findora replied shortly. "Remember what happened the last time?"

A shadow passed across Cor's face, and Aravis reached over and put her hand on his arm. "Yes, I do, Findora," he said evenly. "What are you saying?"

"_They'll come again_! They'll smell us—they'll hear us—"

Her voice was rising to a hysterical pitch, and Janey gripped her shoulder. "Get it together, Findora! We're a long way from Woodbarrow, you know."

"We need to eat and rest the horses, Findora," Aravis said pleadingly. "If the dragons do come, we need to be ready for them."

Findora was shaking like a leaf, but she put her head up and nodded briefly. Cor sighed. "Thank you. Let's get you something to eat and some warmer clothes."

"You need to sleep, too," Aravis told him as the horses picked their way through the snowy underbrush. "You're still sick."

"I rode all day though, without complaining," he wheedled.

"Yes, you did. But you can't be a morale booster if you're dead."

"Negativity."

"Truth."

"I'm the prince, you can't tell me what to do."

"Fine, but then I will let you freeze to death the next time you fall senseless into the snow."

He huffed like a horse but did not complain when Darrin offered to take care of Raider. Inga was testy and nipped at Aravis when she went to detangle her mane, so Aravis contented herself with only putting the saddle away under its waterproof cover and removing the bit from Inga's mouth so the nag could eat. (She got a bitten finger for her troubles.)

Because of the weather, neither Romith nor Dor could start a decent fire, so they were forced to eat cold, slightly stale bread and some of the remnants of Aravis's elk for dinner, melting snow in their cups over the spitting coals so they could have something to drink. It was far from satisfying: Aravis woke in the middle of the night with a pinched, empty feeling in her stomach that would not go away despite her best efforts to fall back asleep. Shivering in the cold, then, she wrapped herself in skins, careful not to wake Findora, who was sleeping restlessly next to her, and slipped out into the snow in search of more food.

She was horrified to see Cor crouching in front of the smoldering coals, snow accumulating on his shoulders. "_You_!" she hissed, startling him. "What are you doing up?"

"Er—I was just—thirsty—" he stammered, flushing.

"Who has watch?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Cor? _Who has watch_?"

"I do?"

She snarled, anger rippling through her body. "Where's Corin?"

"Aravis, I—"

"_Where is he_?"

Cor pointed to one of the tents. Aravis was there in a moment, throwing aside the flap and punching the larger lump in what she assumed to be the shoulder. Corin moaned. "Get up," she snapped. "Get up! While you laze around in bed, Cor keeps watch. In _his_ condition—he can hardly lift a sword, Corin, much less protect us all! He needs to be in bed."

"You're right, absolutely right," Corin stammered. "I'll take over for him, I promise. Let me get dressed."

Corin's response startled her—she expected him to put up a fight—but her surprise was only temporary, quickly replaced by a maelstrom of emotions that she could hardly put a name to. With a snarl, she turned away and stalked back to the coals, struggling through the deep snow.

"You're really angry, aren't you," Cor said in wonder as she yanked back his collar to check the gashes. (Still clean.)

"Of course I'm really angry," she snapped.

"But why? I'm just—"

"Just what?"

"Keeping watch."

"When you should be in bed."

"Why do you suddenly care if I'm in bed or not?"

She brushed snow off his cloak with more force than was necessary. "Because I risked my _life_ to save you and—and all you can think about is how best to get yourself killed next!"

He caught her wrist. "I'm sorry, Aravis. I didn't mean it that way. "

She wrenched away and stormed back to her tent without a word. It wasn't until a few moments later, when her heart rate was slowing, that she realized she'd never gotten the food.

* * *

Morning came all too soon. The darkness and howling storm that buffeted Aravis's tent disoriented her for a moment, but then she realized that Darrin had stuck his head in and was shouting at her over the wailing wind. "We have to move on," he was saying. "It's snowing very hard—"

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she shouted back, waving him away and grimacing. He disappeared into the driving snow, and she groaned. She had experienced Archenlandian blizzards before, but never by riding through one. It did not seem like it would be much fun.

Sure enough, when she had extricated herself from the tent, the icy, pelting wind nearly drove her off her feet. The snow, falling almost horizontally, made it difficult to see further than the next tent; all she could tell from the voices that occasionally rose over the sound of the wind was that the others were packing up quickly.

Inga was standing with her back to the wind, ears flattened against her head with displeasure, but she gave Aravis no trouble as she ran about tacking her clumsily. It was hard enough to see what she was doing in the half-dark and snow, and her fingers were thick with cold and the tack stiff.

Finally, though, she finished and swung up, nearly slipping off the other side before she found the other stirrup.

"There you are," came Cor's muffled voice. He pulled up beside her, Raider snorting as snowflakes pelted his nose. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to sleep in."

"If only," she answered coolly, wrapping her scarf around her neck and chin. "Are we ready to set off?"

"Most of us have already set off. There's no use in traveling as a group, since the snow is so thick—I sent them on ahead in pairs. You, myself, and Corin are left."

"You waited for me?" she asked, surprised despite herself. "I thought we were having a tiff."

"_You_ were having a tiff, I just sat back and took it."

"Is that what Corin's doing to us?"

"Sitting back and taking it? Yes, I think so. Ah, speak of the _devil_."

Corin pulled up on Aravis's other side, muffled up to his eyes and looking practically identical to Cor save for the horse he rode. "Are we the last?" he asked her, avoiding eye contact with his twin.

Aravis nodded. "Yes. Let's do get on, I'm freezing to my saddle."

The horses moved forward, slogging through the deep snow with obvious displeasure. Though they were protected somewhat by the evergreens that towered over them, the thick dark branches blocked what little light there was, making it very difficult to see the safety (or lack thereof) of the path before them. Aravis could tell the others had passed through shortly before them, but the hoofprints were already filling with ice and snow and would soon be hidden. She urged Inga forward.

There was no conversation to be had between the three of them. It was easiest to stay silent, of course, because the wailing wind caught every word and threw it away, but Aravis had the distinct feeling that even if it had been silent, there still wouldn't have been any talking. Finally, some time later, she sighed. "Is this what being you feels like, Corin?"

"What?"

"I said, _is this what being you feels like_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Being caught between two people who are in an argument and aren't speaking to each other."

"Yes," Cor cut in, "but _we_ usually fight about stupid things."

"Charming."

"This isn't stupid?" Corin said bravely.

"If you're asking whether leaving your elder brother to get sold into slavery is a stupid thing to fight about, no, it isn't," Cor snarled.

"I didn't _leave_ you anywhere. You shouldn't have gone out alone!"

"Oh, so now it's _my_ fault."

"Not any less than it is mine! You said it yourself—'Shadesport is a slaver's den. Don't go anywhere alone.'"

"If Aravis had gone out alone and been taken, you wouldn't dare say that to her—"

"Oh, no," she said loudly, "you two aren't dragging me into this."

They ignored her. "I don't deserve to be treated like this," Corin shouted, making Inga snort. "I was drunk, I was hung-over, but at least _I_ stayed! You should have known better, _you _were a slave once!"

Aravis halted Inga immediately and forced her to back up. His childhood with Arsheesh was an incredibly sensitive subject for Cor—she only knew him to talk about it at any length with her and Lune, never Corin, who couldn't be expected to understand. Either way, she wanted no part of the maelstorm that was sure to come.

"What did you say to me?" Cor bellowed, wrenching Raider's head around so he was closer to Corin. "Say it to my face, you bastard!"

"You were a slave!" Corin roared back. His pretty dune mare squealed with fright at the sight of Raider, but he held it steady and scowled fearsomely up at his taller brother.

"You're going to regret that," Cor answered. "Get off that damn palfrey and face me like a man—"

"Oh, I will—"

Corin practically fell from the saddle in his haste to dismount, landing unsteadily in the thigh-high snow and stumbling forward. Caught off-guard by the sudden movement, Raider whinnied and reared back, his hooves slipping on the ice that lay hidden under the snow. For a terrifying moment, Aravis thought the two of them would go over backward, but the massive horse found his footing at the last second by veering around and tripping back a few steps too far. Inga squealed as Raider's hooves found her knees, and suddenly, Aravis too felt herself sliding. She instinctively hunched forward and clung to Inga's neck to keep herself in the saddle, but then she realized that Inga's hooves were pawing frantically at the snow as they slipped toward a steep drop-off where the side of the low forest hill had sloughed away long ago.

Inga bugled and the world turned upside down. For a long moment, Aravis felt and saw nothing but the snow that pelted her face, and then her head struck something hard, the snow blurred, and everything went dark.


	55. Chapter Fifty-Five

_Chapter Fifty-Five_

A flash of light pierced the darkness. It drilled deep into Aravis's head, searing her eyes and leaving a trail of fire across her brow. _No. Stop_. She wailed and turned her face to the cool flagstones.

_Flagstones?_

She stretched out a hand. It felt like she was moving through water, but her searching fingertips found a smooth stone, the edges of each piece worn down with age. She cracked an eye open. The light, the burning, aching light, was coming from a doorway where a pair of slippers danced restlessly.

_Who are you?_ she tried to say, but the words got caught between her brain and tongue, and all that came from her throat was an unintelligible croak. The slippers turned and hurried away.

Aravis closed her eyes, the effort of blinking too draining, and turned her fleeting attention to her other hand. Her fingers, cold at the tips, were clenched tightly around a piece of wrinkled fabric, and she slowly moved her head to see what it was. The linen was white and clean, and she saw on the floor in the shadows the remnants of broken wax and a few dented candlesticks.

She rested her cheek on the cool stone, her eyes tingling with the respite from the light, and breathed shallowly as her mind slowly ground into action. Nothing made sense. It was impossible for her to be here. But why was it impossible? Where had she been? Wasn't she just—or perhaps—

"Oh, bloody h—Aravis!"

The light was blocked suddenly by a looming shadow, and before Aravis could put two and two together, someone's big, warm hands were grasping her shoulders and turning her gently onto her back. She recoiled in pain and the shadow shushed her, its fingers whispering about her as it took her pulse, parted her hair and touched a bruise, and brushed her bare shin.

"Yes, I think she's all right. Aravis? Can you hear me? Please try opening your eyes."

"The light," she croaked.

There was a whisper.

"I think she said the light. Shut the door and light a candle."

A moment passed before the blazing light faded and blinked out with a snap; there was the sound of a match striking and the soft, gentle light of a small candle filled the darkness. Aravis opened her eyes cautiously, flinching a little at the flickering light. Cor loomed above her. At the sight of his familiar face, tangible relief flooded her body.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly. "We're going to get you back into bed and patched up a bit."

_Patched up…?_

Her question was answered when he lifted her in his arms and she caught a glimpse of a small reddish-brown stain near the hem of her white nightgown. He carried her across the small room and settled her on a lumpy mattress, fluffing the pillows behind her head and pulling a threadbare sheet and moth-eaten coverlet over her legs.

"Where are we?" she rasped.

Cor poured water from a jug into a shallow bowl and dipped a rag in it before speaking. "Castle Zohra. Do you not remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Your fall? What happened after that?"

She shook her head.

He sighed and pushed the sleeve of her nightgown up and lifted her arm; there was a scrape on her elbow that she did not remember getting, but he gently soaked away the dried blood and blew a cool breath on it before pulling the sleeve back down. "Corin and I were arguing, remember? Inga slipped, and you…" He pushed the coverlet aside and applied the cloth to her bloodied knee. "Fell."

As sharp pain shot up Aravis's leg, hazy memories began to surface in her brain. Snow, a sensation of weightlessness, Inga's panicked whinnying, Cor shouting her name, red snow…her head threatened to burst with the storm of images, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

"No, no, don't try to remember," Cor said hastily, his voice pulling her back just as his hands closed over her wrists. "You need to recover first."

"My head hurts," she whimpered helplessly.

Pulling a ragged old sewing stool next to her bed, he dampened another cloth and placed it on her forehead, pushing her tangled hair back so it wouldn't get wet. "You hit it on something when Inga went down. You're just lucky she didn't roll over you—when I reached you, I was convinced you were dead…you were so pale, and the snow was just—crimson…"

Her hand flew to her head, instinctively feeling for a wound. All that met her searching fingers was the scarring on the back of her head from Gyneth's rock. Cor took her wrist and pulled her hand away again, shaking his head. "It was a small cut, don't worry. It's healing up already. You know how head wounds are."

"How long?"

"Just a few days ago."

"Christmas?"

"Not for another week or two."

"The others?"

"All fine. Bit shaken up by your accident, though."

"Inga?"

"Sprained her left knee and got scraped up, but the swelling's down already. She'll be all right."

"Sidrat?"

"We're told he is away for a few days on business."

"Oh?"

"I know. If we didn't have nowhere else to go, I'd give him a piece of my mind. We've been treated well enough, but look at this room! You're the lady of Anvard, and you've been put in a broom closet."

"Cor," she said gently, turning her palm up. He had absently been tracing circles with his thumb on the sensitive skin of the back of her hand, tickling her to distraction.

He blushed. "Sorry. I'm just—it's such a relief to hear your voice again—and _lucid_, too, so that's…do you really not remember anything? Getting to Zohra, or since…?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Snow. Voices. I was confused…"

He followed her gaze and saw the remnants of what she now realized had been a table dressing, a linen runner and several pillar candles now laying in a heap on the floor. "Ah, yes. You really were. You must have gotten up and stumbled when I was down at dinner. I'm sorry I let that—"

She waved aside his apology.

"Right. So you don't remember…saying anything to me?"

"Do you?"

"From when I was sick? No, I guess not. Did I say strange things?"

"Didn't know who I was."

He was quiet for a long minute, looking intently at her hand in his as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. "Did it hurt?" he asked finally, refusing to meet her gaze. "When I was sick. When I didn't know you."

She nodded. "Did I not—"

Cor shook his head. "Fought me tooth and nail, actually. See?" He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to show four red welts, now scabbed over, that curved savagely across the fair skin of his arm. "I couldn't be in the room when you were awake, because you…you were afraid of me, I guess."

A bolt of pain arced behind Aravis's eyes as she let the reality of the situation hit home. It had broken her heart when Cor looked straight at her and didn't recognize her, but still, she knew at a rational level that he'd eventually remember her. But what if he had lashed out at her? Recovered from the fever but never recovered his memory? For some reason, her aching head enhanced her memory of the emotions that had surged through her that night, and she was suddenly reaching out for Cor with a bit of desperation. He must have understood, for he was by her side in a flash, the mattress groaning under their combined weight as he scooped her up and hugged her tight. Aravis hurt, and the strength of his hug only served to exacerbate that pain, but she clung to him out of a sudden fear that he would get up and walk out.

"You're not really afraid of me, are you, Aravis?" he asked worriedly.

She shook her head as vehemently as she could stand it.

He relaxed a little and helped her lay back against her pillows before returning to his stool. "Not that I thought you were, of course. I was completely confident in you…"

A laugh, however brief, escaped her lips, and he looked gratified. "But we couldn't have done it without Elnaz. You didn't mind her at all."

"Eln…"

She then realized that there was another person in the room. It shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did—who was Cor talking to when he found her? Whose slippers did she see in the doorway?—but she was still shocked to see a slight form stir and approach the bed. The girl, who couldn't be more than seventeen, was small and dark, almond-shaped black eyes peeking out from over a green linen veil that matched her flowing gown. Each step she took jingled with the sound of bejeweled ankles and wrists. _This_, Aravis thought, was a Calormene noblewoman without a doubt.

Then her dusty brain clicked into position, and she gasped. "Elnaz!"

"Cousin," came the girl's voice, barely above a whisper as she slipped alongside the mattress and took Aravis's hand in her own tiny one. She hooked a finger over her veil and tugged it down her face just long enough that she could kiss both of Aravis's cheeks with dry lips, then let it draw up again.

"You're related?" Cor asked bemusedly.

Aravis nodded. "Most noble houses are—Elnaz is an _amgheza_—minor tarkheena. Province of Ahura Mazda. My…"

"Fourth cousin, by our mothers," Elnaz finished for her, patting her hand. "We spent summers together in Calavar."

"Why are you here?"

"The viscount is my guardian now," Elnaz told her softly. "I am his second cousin once removed."

"What's he like?" she asked.

"The father or the son?"

"There are two?" Cor broke in incredulously.

Elnaz nodded. "The father is bedridden, and the son rules in his stead. Khurshid Hammerhand, his name is."

"What is he like? Khurshid, I mean."

Elnaz's expression was unreadable, and Aravis silently cursed the veil even though she knew that was its purpose. "Young. Old Calormene traditions and honor._ Lean and fit, quick of wit_."

Cor harrumphed. "Bloody rude, too, if you ask me."

"You'll meet him soon enough," Elnaz murmured. "How do you feel?"

"My head aches," Aravis replied.

"Yes, cousin, and it will for a few days yet, I'm afraid. You injured it dearly. You'll likely have trouble staying awake and walking, too, for a bit."

Aravis's consternation must have showed on her face, for Elnaz patted her hand. "But you're awake now and remembering things properly. We must give thanks to Tash for his mercy."

Like a funny water bird, Elnaz put her hands to her forehead and did the quick little bow of deference to the god Tash that had been such a part of Aravis's childhood. The sight made her uncomfortable, and the ever-present tightness across her back reminded her of what lay beyond the bird-god's jurisdiction.

"You should try to sleep, dear cousin," Elnaz said after her prostrations were complete. "You'll want to be strong and healthy when his lordship returns. _A healthy mind makes the cheeks glow_."

"I'm not terribly keen on making a good impression," Cor grumbled.

Aravis nodded. "I will. Thank you."

Elnaz squeezed her hand. "I will see you in the morn."

Cor inclined his head to her, and Elnaz bowed herself out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. (Aravis sighed to herself—as if Cor would attempt to deflower her in the condition she was in.)

"She's right, you know," he said, scooting closer to the mattress and replacing the cool cloth on her forehead. "You've got to rest up for Christmas. And no doubt this half-breed will want to throw dancing parties, as well…"

"That's not nice," she said sternly.

"But he is! He's not an Archenlander, by the sound of it."

"I'm not, either."

Cor had no response to this observation, and Aravis was amused by the look on his face. "You should sleep," he said, adding dryly, "Wouldn't want you to lose your spunk, no sir."

She rolled over and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. It was easier said than done, as her whole body felt like one large bruise, but when she was settled, Cor drew the covers up over her shoulder and arranged them so no cold drafts could slip in. "I'm only just down the hall," he said gently, brushing her chin with one finger. "So call if you need me."

She nodded, and as she slipped into sleep, she heard his voice again, but it was far away now and her bed was so very warm.

* * *

The next day was a bit better. Aravis woke an hour after noon and forced herself to walk around her tiny room for a few minutes before she felt faint; after she had eaten (Hana and Janey brought her some broth and warm, nutty bread) and brushed out her matted hair, she sat by the window for a few minutes, gazing out over the castle walls and into the snowy forest beyond. Small flakes continued to drift past the glass, accumulating on the sill and the battlements that were visible below. It seemed incredible to her that they had managed to trek through it all even with her being unconscious and (apparently) combative.

The day after that she was allowed to take a bath. Several silent maidservants bustled into her room with buckets of unidentifiable tools and soon had her naked in a chair in front of the fire as they combed the knots out of her hair and scrubbed the dirt from under her fingernails (clucking at the state of her hands) while they waited for the menservants to bring up the tub. She soaked in the hot water for what had only seemed like a minute before they were scrubbing every inch of her body with little stiff-bristled brushes and rinsing strong-smelling soap through her hair.

By the time she was wrapped in a flannel robe and the maidservants had mopped up all the water and whisked away the tool buckets, Aravis was exhausted, and she climbed back into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When she registered a touch at her temple some time later, it felt like she was rousing herself from the grave.

Cor laughed. "You look like a newborn kitten, Aravis," he said teasingly, making mewling noises at her as she looked at him with one eye. "All mussed and squinty-eyed." He wrinkled his nose at her.

"Lemme be," she muttered.

"Oh, come, now. Your hair is the right color again and you smell like rosewater. What say you share your loveliness with the others at dinner? They're starting to say it's not fair for me to keep you to myself for so long."

She yawned and rolled over. "I haven't anything to wear."

"We'll be the only ones there—Sidrat isn't back yet. The maidservants washed the frock you were wearing, anyway, so that's clean."

"I'm still so tired, though…"

The mattress sagged as he sat on it. "May I feel your pulse?" he asked. When she nodded, he found her hand and slipped two fingers under her wrist. "It feels normal," he said after a moment. "And you haven't got a fever, or an infection on your hand, and your skin isn't papery. I think you need to get up and about, start getting your strength back."

She had to smile up at him, clucking around her like a mother hen. "Fine. But only because you're making me feel too much like a patient."

"The Aravis I know could cleave a man's skull in two while nursing the influenza if she had to. A simple thump on the head shouldn't keep you from dinner!"

"You think me capable of doing the strangest things," she sighed, sitting up. He got off and helped her detangle herself from the covers. "It won't take long, will it? It's cold."

"Only your room is cold. The rest of the castle is actually quite nice, you know."

She sighed. "I'll believe it when I see it. Now go outside so I can change."

He obliged, and when the door had clicked shut, Aravis pushed herself off the bed, waited for her head to clear, and went over to the dented wardrobe wherein hung two shifts and her only frock. She put both undergarments on to keep warm, and the dress, which had previously been just loose enough to allow no more than one shift, slipped easily over the two. "Cor," she called.

"Can I come in?" came his muffled voice through the door.

"Yes, I need you to do my stays."

"Ah," he said, opening the door and striding over, "the real reason you bought me out of slavery."

"You are my best lady-in-waiting," she replied, shaking her hair over her shoulder.

"How tight?"

"Not very, please."

She turned her back to him and he threaded the leather thongs through the grommets of the gown, then started at the bottom and gently pulled the bodice tight. "Good?" he asked, tying off the top.

"Good," Aravis answered. "You'll make a maidservant yet."

"Whatever milady desires," he responded with a low bow.

"Then hand me that brush, boy," she said imperiously, lowering herself into the nearest chair as exhaustion nearly overwhelmed her again.

He did as he was told, and she began to comb out her tangled hair as he settled in front of the fire like a cat. "I'm counting on you to help me with the Sidrats," he said with a yawn.

"Why me? You are perfectly capable of dealing with an old man and a pock-faced youngster."

"Yes, but the pock-faced youngster is at least part Calormene, right? He might just take a liking to you."

"Are you trying to marry me off again?" she said dryly, beginning to loosely plait her hair.

Cor sat straight up at this and looked at her with horror. "Don't even go there, Aravis," he said seriously.

"What? I'll do what I want, Cor."

"You always do," he said with a sigh. "But please…do you really want to be mistress of Zohra for the rest of your life? Miles away from…Anvard?"

"I can't answer that, as I haven't seen any of Zohra outside of these four walls," she said archly.

"Well, come on, then," Cor replied, clearly relieved to change the subject. "Dinner is probably getting cold."

He helped her out of her chair and led her into the corridor outside her room. It really was warmer, she thought begrudgingly, and it was cheerily lit with the dancing flames of well-placed torches. Every few feet there hung massive tapestries and ancient war relics, giving the stone castle a distinctly antique feel; in addition, there was the occasional _kilim_, the ornate and expensive nomad needle art that graced the walls of many a Calormene _diz_. She stopped briefly to touch one and found it clean and well maintained.

"Don't say it," Cor groaned when she turned to him.

"He has good taste," she said anyway with a smile.

Cor rolled his eyes.

They continued through the castle at an easy pace, gazing at the artwork and out the small windows at the whirling snow. "Suppose he never comes back," Cor said wistfully, tracing his name in the fog on the glass. "Then we never have to deal with him and can spend Christmas on our own terms."

"That's terrible," Aravis admonished him.

"Fine. Suppose he gets snowed in wherever he is and doesn't make it back until after we're gone?"

Aravis shrugged. "That wouldn't be too bad, would it? It's nice to be in a castle and not have to worry about making good impressions or any rot of the sort."

"No, it's rather like running one's own household, isn't it? To some extent. The grooms won't let me take Raider out until it stops snowing."

"The knaves."

"But have you seen the grounds?" he asked, taking her hand as they started to descend a flight of smooth stone stairs. "They're marvelous, Aravis, just what I want to do to Anvard someday. There's a whole pavilion for horses, you know, overlooking a fantastic pond…"

"I have always regretted not being able to bring a horse up to the gardens," she replied amiably. His shoulder made a solid crutch as she made her way down the steep staircase. "But they'd just nibble at the plants and get poisoned or whipped by the gardeners. It would be very nice to have a lawn to ride on within sight of the castle."

"When we get back, you should help me lay out the design. You'd have to help me with the mathematics of it, anyway."

"I should like nothing better than to confuse you with numbers."

"I don't mind sacrificing my dignity to please you, milady. Or to ensure a garden that's not wonky."

She had to laugh a bit at the absurd mental image his comment evoked, and he grinned. "What will your father say when he comes to visit and sees our horses grazing in the begonias?"

"'That begonia,'" said Cor, puffing out his chest and imitating Lune's booming voice, "'that _heirloom begonia_—was centuries old! Tell the palace gardeners that you let Inga masticate their prize begonia and see if they'll accept your "sorry".' But it's all right—we'll blame it on Corin and think nothing more about it."

Aravis laughed until her head hurt and then some, leaning on his arm as her legs went to jelly. Cor looked pleased with himself. "_Really_," she said breathlessly, "we shouldn't be giggling, it's unseemly!"

"More unseemly than ponies in the peonies?"

"_Much_ more."

"You know, Aravis, I can think of a few things more unseemly than giggling…"

Aravis had a saucy response on the tip of her tongue, but when she saw Corin come around the corner, it fizzled out.

"Oh, just looking for you lot," Corin said. His eyebrows lifted meaningfully, and Aravis realized that she was still clinging to Cor's hand. Or was it the other way around? Either way, she let go and edged away, and Corin pointed awkwardly in the direction he had just come from. "Shall we?"

Cor nodded casually and they trailed along behind him. For some reason, Aravis found it very hard to keep a straight face, and it did not help when, once he'd noticed the look on her face, Cor held his arms out to his side and imitated Corin's characteristic swaggering walk. She barely muffled a giggle.

Corin led them down a narrow corridor and through a low doorway into what appeared to be the castle's main hall. It was large and mostly empty, and Aravis let her gaze draw upwards as the lofty ceiling disappeared in shadow; the only light in the entire massive room was coming from nearby where everyone was sitting, bathed in the warm glow of the many candles that covered the dinner table. They greeted her and the twins with a chorus of cheers, several of the men lifting foaming mugs in the air.

"Ah, the sleeper awakes," came a familiar booming voice.

"Dar!" Aravis exclaimed, laughing as the man swept her off the rushes into a gruff embrace. "I thought you'd gone north again!"

"Aye, I did, dear saucy lady," said Dar, planting a wet kiss on her forehead. "But the cold north is bonechilling and hopeless without your beautiful face by my side!"

"Right then," Cor said lightly, pulling him and Aravis apart with an iron grip. "She's got a head injury, you know…"

"Cor, you didn't tell me Dar was back," Aravis said indignantly.

"You'd have recovered sooner had you known," Dar prodded with a wink.

Cor smiled obligingly and said to her, "He only just got in this morning. Ram thought it would be nice if we made it a surprise."

"Indeed," said Ram, pulling a weathered chair out for her to sit down in. "I knew you'd want to be included in our discussions, but there was no need to rush."

"It does seem so much more like a party now," she said agreeably as she settled down in the seat across from Elnaz, Janey, and Hana, all of whom immediately got her a trencher and loaded it down with cheese and ham and a steaming boiled potato. "You and your men are staying for Christmas, of course?"

"I wouldn't dream of missing it," Dar answered with a bow that almost dunked his neat beard into a bowl of stew. Darrin gave a long-suffering sigh. "But alas, my dearest lady, we must part soon after."

"Oh?" she said sadly, looking at Cor for confirmation.

Cor leaned forward and took a piece of the cheese off her trencher and bit into it, then, apparently approving of it, cut a large hunk off the block and ate a few bites before answering. "We're going to head west towards Father's hunting lodge when the snows clear a bit. Dar and his men will head back northeast."

"More lordlings needing supervision?" Aravis asked Dar sympathetically.

"You might say that," he answered with a wink.

"Your father's 'untin' lodge?" came a high voice. "Oooh, what's 'at like?"

Aravis had forgotten that Ragna existed, and as Cor turned to tell her about the beautiful stone manor high up in the southern mountains, dusted with snow like a gingerbread house, she lost her appetite. It really wasn't fair, and she knew it—Cor had a responsibility to these women, as he was going to marry one of them, not her, but it still stung just as sharply as it had in the fall. Ragna hadn't made any effort to go buy him from slavery, had she? Hardly. And yet Cor was telling her about the rear turret, a high-up room where only he and she and Corin had played. It wasn't her memory to have.

"You look peaky," Janey said, leaning across the table. "How is your head?"

"Sore," Aravis answered dully. "And I'm awfully tired."

"Sure you are, but your body needs some nourishment. Strong girl like you shouldn't look so angular."

More to get Janey to leave her alone than anything else, Aravis nibbled at a piece of warm bread slathered in strawberry preserves. It really was good, but her stomach cramped after a few moments and she had to remind herself to go slowly—her body was used to salted meat and weak broth.

As Ram regaled them all with an engaging story of the time he climbed a pine tree to fetch an egg from an eagle's eyrie, though, she felt Cor's warm, callused fingers slip gently across her bare hand. Suddenly, it was as if her whole body had come alive, tingling with a million points of heat as her consciousness shrank to the size of her right wrist.

Then she realized he was taking her pulse, and the rest of her body normalized, leaving her feeling flushed and bewildered. "How is your head?" he said in a low voice.

Aravis had to clear her throat once or twice before answering. "I'm getting tired," she said truthfully. He was still holding on to her wrist, and she suddenly wanted to push him away and sprint back to her room, though it dawned on her that she had no idea where it was.

"Can you try to eat some more?"

"What are you, my governess?" she asked with false levity, using the excuse to pull away from him and reach blindly for a piece of food.

He sat quietly next to her as she forced down another piece of jammy bread and drank a goblet of honeyed water. "You're looking flushed," he said when she'd finished. "Let me take your pulse again."

"No," she said, pulling her hand away. "Just tell me where my room is. I want to go to bed."

"I can tell you where it is, but I think it's best if someone goes with you."

"I'll be fine."

"At least let me walk you part of the way."

Aravis was in no mood to argue, so she pushed away from the table and stood.

"Oh, going so soon?" Hana asked sadly.

"Yes," Cor said with a friendly smile, "you've done her in for the night, you noisy lot."

A chorus of sympathetic goodnights followed her as they left the room by the same side door. Once out in the coolness of the corridor, some of the heat left her face, but she still felt oddly unsettled, as if the ground had shifted just a little beneath her feet and everything was now a few inches off.

"I'll ask Sidrat to move you to better chambers when he gets back from gallivanting about," Cor was saying. "You're shoved away in a dusty corner like a dirty mop."

Aravis wanted nothing and everything to do with Cor at the moment. She felt angry and upset, as though he had done something offensive, but she knew that logically, he had done nothing wrong. In fact, he had done everything right—

There was a sharp pain in her leg and the next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the stone floor. _Damn chest_, she thought instinctively, looking at the piece of furniture she had tripped over.

Cor stooped to help her up. Her palms ached as he turned them over, and she saw with a wince that they were scraped raw, oozing blood and fluid. A moment later and he was wrapping the worst one in a clean handkerchief and tucking the ends in so it would stay put. "Careful where you walk," he told her softly, meeting her gaze with his ice blue one. "Tripping is _my_ job."

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said brusquely, pulling her hand out of his grasp. "Now, I know that we went down some stairs. Where are they?"

Cor watched her for a moment, then pointed down another corridor. "Just this way."

When they finally reached her room, Cor lingered outside the door as she opened it and slipped inside. "Will you be all right tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered shortly. "I'm just very sleepy."

"If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."

"I know."

"Goodnight, Aravis."

"Goodnight." She shut the door and fumbled for the lock for a moment before she realized that there wasn't one at all. _Strange_, she thought, perturbed, but then she decided it was probably for the best, and she got into her nightgown and crawled into bed, falling asleep right away.

* * *

"Corin, _no_—"

Aravis's door burst open with a loud thump, startling her out of a deep sleep. As she scrambled to sit up in bed, Corin staggered into her room, pursued closely by Cor, who was sporting a bloodied nose. "What the bloody _hell_ is going on?" she cried, desperately scrubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Aravis," Corin slurred, coming around to her side of the bed and falling to his knees by her mattress. "Aravis, there you are, I were lookin' all over for you…"

"He's dead sloshed," Cor said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I can see that," she answered with consternation. "And he's _crying_—oh, good heavens, is he always going to be a sad drunk?"

Corin was indeed crying, and he buried his face in her motheaten coverlet. "I'm so sorry," he wailed. "I—I—I—I'm such a terrible excuse for a human being…"

She patted his shaggy golden head. "There, there."

Cor sighed and sank down on the other side of her mattress. "He insists on apologizing for the way he's treated you."

"Oh?" she said, surprised. "Have you two had it out, then?"

"In a manner of speaking. I talked, he drank, and here we are."

"He's apologized to you, then."

"Yes."

Corin's sob reached a wail for a moment, making Aravis cringe. "I—was—so—wrong," he moaned. "So—shtupid…"

Cor sighed and laid back on the mattress with his eyes closed, and Aravis pushed the covers aside and sat up. "Oh, Corin, it's all right," she said with a deep breath. "You didn't mean anything by it."

"No—excuse," he insisted. "Hana—hates my every breath—"

"There, there."

"She says I—am a poor excuse—for a _prince_—a _prince_, Aravis—"

"She didn't mean it, I'm sure."

"But I _am_!"

"Well, perhaps if you didn't wake me up drunk in the wee hours of the morning, she might take it back."

This only made him more miserable.

"I'm sorry, Corin, that was mean. You can wake me up drunk whenever you want, if it makes you feel better. That's what friends are for."

Corin raised his flushed and tear-streaked face from her blanket, a look of woozy gratitude on it. "Really?" he whispered.

"Really."

"I wan'—to be a better friend, Ar'vis. How do I—_hic_—become a better frien'?"

"You can start by cutting your hair and trimming your beard," she answered honestly, flicking a wayward curl off his face. "You're beginning to look like a vagabond, both of you."

"I'll cut my hair," he said seriously.

"No, no," she replied in haste. "Let me do it. Tomorrow. All right, Corin? You go back to your room, go to sleep, and in the morning I'll cut your hair for you."

He nodded, vomited into her chamber pot, and passed out cold on her fireplace rug. _Finally_, she thought, running her hand through her messy hair, _peace and quiet_!

Cor had somehow managed to fall asleep with his head buried in her pillow, and she had to prod him a few times before he finally opened his eyes and looked up at her. "He's done," she said dryly.

"Already?" he answered with a yawn.

"Yes. Want to take him back to his room so he can sleep it off?"

"Leaving him on the floor would be an honor, but I'd rather he nurse his hangover in private."

"Thank you."

He yawned again and got up from her bed. "We decided it's best if he goes home soon," he said, fixing her pillows.

She stared at him. "What?"

Cor nodded. "He's miserable, Aravis, look at him. And I don't know what I can do about it besides sending him home to Father. He's dangerous to himself and to the rest of us when he gets drunk like this, and goodness knows it was a stupid idea to let him come along in the first place. There's a reason we're meant to take our fledgling years separately."

"What does he think about that?" she asked quietly.

"He hates it, of course. But it was his idea. He'll go with us to the hunting lodge and then make north from there."

She watched the stockier man snore on her rug, her heart sore. Suddenly, all the bitterness she had been harboring towards him dissolved, and she hunched over in genuine regret. "I wish it had gone better."

"So do I," Cor said mournfully, sitting on the mattress by her feet. "But we've got no choice. What if he let something happen to you?"

"You should be worrying about yourself, not me," she answered. "I'm no one. I'm not important."

"You're important to me," he said simply. He then got up and slung Corin's senseless form over his shoulder, staggering a bit under the weight. "If you can get back to sleep after all this, that would be impressive."

"Be careful with your shoulders," Aravis said with a bit of alarm.

"Don't worry about me. Pity the poor man for the massive headache he'll have tomorrow."

She had to giggle a bit.

Cor nodded and headed for the door, accidentally clipping Corin's head on the edge of Aravis's bed. "Damn it."

"Chalk it up to the drink tomorrow."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Oh, and Cor," she added as he was reaching for the door with his free hand, "you're important to me, too."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he replied with a smile, then closed the door behind him and left her in peace.

* * *

_A/N: Four words: papers, sinus infection, blizzard_. ~SH


	56. Chapter Fifty-Six

_Chapter Fifty-Six_

Aravis had only been awake and dressed for a few minutes the next morning when there came a knock at her door. It was a polite knock, quiet enough not to disturb her if she had still been asleep, but also firm, indicating that the knocker had no qualms about getting her attention if she was indeed awake.

"Thought it might be you," she said when she opened the door and saw Corin.

He stepped over the threshold into her room, his hands full of a shallow bowl that was covered with a linen towel. "I'm sorry about last night," he said quietly as she peeked under the towel and saw a comb, a razor, a pair of sewing scissors, and a bar of shaving soap.

She covered the bowl again and looked up into his pale, drawn face. He had grown thin since leaving Anvard, she realized sadly; he had always tended towards stockiness, but his round, boyish cheeks had melted away, revealing the high cheekbones his father had once been known for. His skin hung loosely about his eyes.

"Don't you worry about that any more," she said gently, pinching his chin with a half-hearted attempt at levity. "I've decided to forgive everything you've ever done in one fell swoop."

He did not smile.

"How's your head feeling?" she went on.

"Like it's been cleft in two."

"You need to be very careful about your drinking, Corin. Here, have a sip of water."

"It's easier to relax when I've had a stiff one," he answered, accepting the cup she handed him.

"Yes, but you never have just one."

"I tend to lose count."

Aravis sighed. "Yes, well, that is a problem, isn't it? Come on, let's go to another room. It's so very dark in here without windows."

"Cor's sitting chambers have large ones."

"Let's go there, then. He needs a haircut, too."

He waited politely while she extinguished her candles then slipped her hand under his arm and followed him out into the warm, quiet corridor. "Christmas is coming soon," she said conversationally.

"Yes, it is."

"It will be so strange to celebrate it away from the hunting lodge, won't it?"

"Not at all the same."

"And it is sad that we're missing all the holiday parties in Anvard."

"I daresay there will be plenty of parties when you return in the spring."

"As sad as I am to have you leave us, Corin, you must admit that you're getting the better end of the deal. A good three months without Cor to distract all the lovely palace ladies."

Corin did not answer.

Aravis sighed. "Look, Corin, I know you and Hana rowed."

"I deserved it."

"Oh, bother. Stop playing the martyr, will you? So you and Hana fought. So maybe you deserved it. Cor _always_ deserves it and you don't see him sulking, do you?"

Corin did not look amused, and she wiped the teasing look off her face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. What happened?"

"I left Cor for dead, remember?"

"I do, I really do. But she was miffed before that."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I dunno."

"No idea whatsoever?"

"No. I think it was probably something I said to her, but I don't know what and she won't tell me. Says it can't be fixed, either way."

"I don't remember you saying anything remotely offensive, though."

"With all due respect, Aravis," Corin replied dryly, "you're not privy to even half our conversations."

This shut her up for a moment. "That's—true," she answered. "Is that when she told you you were a poor excuse for a prince?"

He nodded.

"Oh, dear."

"Do you think you can talk to her, maybe?"

Aravis started to say that primarily it was not her business and that secondly she had already tried, but the look on his face was so desperately hopeful that she smiled and nodded. "I'll see what I can do, though I think you're asking the wrong person for advice on how to resolve a row."

His relief was tangible, and he actually smiled a little as he opened the door to Cor's chambers and let her in first. "Thank you, Aravis."

"Don't mention it," she answered absently, staring around at the beauty of the room. It was a private chamber fit for a king, with high glass windows and thick curtains that both let the early morning light in while keeping drafts out. A liveried manservant was busily loading a sideboard down with gleaming silver dishes while a maid with a dirt-streaked face stirred up a roaring fire in the hearth that warmed several nearby couches.

Corin set the bowl down on the table and dismissed the servants. "Cor's still sleeping."

"You rather gave him a run for his money last night," Aravis replied, going over to the sideboard and pouring hot water into a porcelain cup. "Here, drink this and try to relax for a bit." She set black tea to steeping and added lemon and honey to the brew, then slipped it in front of him as he sat down at the table. "I'll wake your brother."

Corin nodded and absently stirred his tea as she crossed the flagstones and rapped lightly on the oaken door set in the far wall. There was no response, so she lifted the latch and slipped in.

Sure enough, the drapes were pulled shut and Cor was asleep, his breaths quick and shallow as he dreamt restlessly. He obviously had collapsed on his bed shortly after dealing with Corin the night before, for his boots were lying haphazardly near the door and he was still fully clothed, lying spread-eagled across the mattress with one arm dangling off the side.

Aravis padded across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He had not slept well, that much was for sure: his tunic was all tangled around his shoulders and neck, his lashing scars shining silver in the soft light from the windows. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, too. She reached out and traced the longest scar with the tip of her finger, the firm, damaged flesh cool under her skin.

Suddenly, Cor was awake, his hands hard and damp as he shoved her down onto the mattress so hard she forgot to breathe. A second later, he had released her and scrambled back, rubbing his eyes and saying, "I'm sorry, Aravis, I'm sorry."

Aravis sat up slowly, her shoulders throbbing from the harshness of his grasp and her mind reeling. Her fear was a long time in easing. "What the hell—?"

He fisted his hands in his golden hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—I thought—I thought—"

_Poor thing_. She pushed aside the tangled covers and crawled over to the foot of the bed where he sat curled up like he was in pain. "It's all right," she murmured. "I've had them too."

"You have?" he asked, looking at her over his arm.

Aravis nodded. "It's always my father coming from the grave to bring me back to Calormen. What about you?"

"Nim chasing me endlessly through the ruins of the palace with a bloodied sword," he admitted miserably. "I have it night after night. It's worse now because I'm alone in this big room."

"Did you think I was…"

"Yes. I'm so very sorry—are you all right?"

She hugged herself. "Yes. Just fine."

"I'm so sorry," he repeated with a deep sigh.

"It's all right. Really. I shouldn't have woken you like that."

"No," he said absently, "it was…nice."

She reached out and touched his shoulder. He didn't react, and she realized after a moment that she had been bracing for another blow. "Cor," she murmured, trying to make his name a caress even as she held his arm, "what happened the night you…you know."

"Were taken?" He said it bitterly.

"Were _attacked_."

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"I understand. But perhaps…well, telling someone about it might help the…the nightmares. It doesn't have to be me. Corin might benefit from hearing it. Or Ragna."

Cor shook his head. "No—no—if I tell anyone, it will be _you_, Aravis, and only you. No one else…no one else understands what it's like to—to be made unhuman, to be reduced to a mere animal, stripped of one's pride and one's dignity and one's _name_—to be _nothing_…"

He hunched over and hid his face in his clenched fists.

"Should I go?" Aravis whispered.

Cor nodded.

The dismissal stung, but Aravis knew she had no right to be hurt, so she moved off the bed as gently as possible and tiptoed to the door.

"They caught me as soon as I was outside," he said just as she went to lift the latch. She froze.

Cor knuckled the spot between his brows where a deep furrow was etched. "My guard was down—I was distracted and upset, and there were four of them. I didn't even have time to react. One of them hit me hard over the head with something heavy. I remember going dizzy and banging my knees up on the ground when I went down—one of them said I was too easy, that the master wouldn't pay up well, so they dragged me back to my feet. I barely had time to put my hands up when one of them hit me in the jaw—I could tell they only common thugs, since even _I_ know not to punch the face. He fell back yelping about his knuckles and I got a few hits in here and there. It was so dark out that I could hardly see. I guess I proved myself, though, since they grabbed me from behind and dragged me out into the back street where a covered wagon waited. They shoved me in and whipped the horse so it bolted, throwing me hard against the side—I remember I bit my tongue so hard it wouldn't stop bleeding."

He broke off and ran his hands over his face, rubbing the stubble on his chin with a faraway expression. Aravis hardly dared to breathe.

"They must have driven me halfway across the city, Aravis. I nearly succeeded in fighting my way out whenever they stopped to shove another poor soul into the wagon with me—that's how I got these." He opened his hands and looked distastefully at the healing wounds that crisscrossed his knuckles. "But every time I did, they hit me a little harder. By the end of the night, I was so exhausted and disoriented I could hardly remember my own name. They had taken to calling me _Shite_, you know—though I guess they might have been calling us all that, come to think of it."

"You were in that wagon all night?" Aravis breathed. Her stomach was in knots. She recalled the chill of the glass against her forehead as she sat by the window and watched the alley, watching and waiting for some sign of Cor. Little had she known he was long gone.

He nodded. "When I saw the sunrise through the cracks in the wagon walls, I realized that I had no idea where I was anymore, and that if I didn't know, you certainly didn't, either."

Aravis felt ill.

"I thought…it was…" Cor shook his head and fisted his hands in his hair. "That was the worst moment of my life," he said haltingly. "It finally dawned on me that I might never see you—see Father or Corin—again—_ever_—"

He leapt off the mattress so fast Aravis started, but he took no notice. "I never, ever thought I'd be a slave again—I always thought that I'd fall on my sword, leap from a high window, _anything_ to avoid it—but _bloody fucking hell_, Aravis, they didn't even give me that chance and it was my own damn fault—"

With a swift motion, he swept aside a pitcher that stood on a little table, shattering it into tiny pieces on the stone floor and splashing water halfway up the wall. But it wasn't the drops trailing down the dusty tapestry that broke Aravis's heart; rather, it was the ones on Cor's freckled cheeks.

"I knew something was wrong right away," she said fiercely. "I just knew it. I was going to tear the city apart looking for you. You were never alone, never forgotten, not even for one minute—so please, Cor—_please_—don't say that again. Don't talk like that, I can't bear it."

"That hope was the only thing holding me together," Cor blurted out, his gaze piercing through her even from across the room.

"I would have searched for the rest of my life, if that's what it took. Burned that entire city to the ground—just to find you—"

"Would you have?" he asked quietly.

There was an emptiness in his eyes that Aravis had never seen before. The more she struggled to comprehend it, the more she understood how utterly vulnerable he was, how helpless they had made him. The only thing he feared was being cast off, betrayed, abandoned, forgotten, and that is exactly what they had done to him. They had ripped away his identity and set him adrift all over again, made him anonymous and inhuman as he slipped away.

"_Yes_," she whispered. "Every day, every night, until the stars fell from the sky and the ocean drained away."

He was still gazing at her in the same steady, intense manner.

"Do you believe me?" she said.

"I don't know."

"Come here."

Cor obeyed silently, stepping over the shards of porcelain scattered across the floor, and padded over to where she stood in front of the door. "I don't know how to prove it to you, Cor," she said softly, reaching up to take his haggard face in her hands. "You'll just have to take me at my word. I will _never_ let them take you again, not while I have breath in my body. Understand?"

He nodded.

Before she could say or do anything further, though, the latch jiggled suddenly and the door swung open and knocked her aside. "Am I interrupting something?" Corin asked, peering quizzically at them from around it. "Only I heard a shout and a smash, and then silence…"

"No, it's all right," Aravis said swiftly. "I wasn't very careful in waking Cor up, is all. We're coming now."

"You didn't tell me Corin was here," Cor said chastizingly.

"I rather forgot," she admitted. "He wants his hair cut this morning."

"You volunteered me for that too, didn't you?"

"I did. We can't have you looking scruffy for Khurshid."

Now that they were out of the dark, stuffy bedchamber and in the cheery sitting room, the light was coming back to Cor's eyes, and a heaping plate of rashers and egg porridge didn't hurt, either. Aravis ate her jammy toast quietly, watching closely as the twins helped themselves and chatted easily. _They are falling apart, the two of them,_ she thought, looking sadly at the dark circles under their blue eyes and the wrinkles between their brows that did not smooth away immediately. Despite herself, she reached out and took hold of Cor's idle hand as if afraid he would get up and leave, and he gripped her fingers back, raising his eyes to meet hers. She was relieved to see that the haunted, hunted look in them was gone, at least for the time being.

Corin cleared his throat and tossed his napkin to the table. "Should I go first, then? Or do you want to?"

"No, go on," Cor answered. "You need it more than I do."

Aravis got up and emptied the bowl, filling it with hot water from the kettle and soaking one of the towels in it. "Take your shirt off, Corin, unless you want little hairs inside it all day."

Corin obliged, draping the discarded article over the back of a chair. "Where do you want me?"

"There, please," Aravis said, pointing to another chair near one of the snow-dusted windows. "The light is best here."

Corin padded over to the seat, the hazy daylight highlighting the thick muscles that were bunched around his shoulders and chest. Aravis had always thought him sturdy, but the months in the saddle had trimmed him down. "You might have gone down a class, Corin," she said, bringing the bowl over.

"You think so, too? I guess I'll have to eat more heartily. There's no sport in boxing fellows half my size."

"Trust me, we'd appreciate it," Cor said dryly.

Aravis used the wet towel to dampen Corin's tangled golden hair. "Well, with a haircut and a shave and some good meals, you'll both start looking like yourselves again before you know it."

He winced as she used the comb to loosen a few knots. "Must you be so quick about it, though?"

"If you kept your hair short like your father wanted, we wouldn't need to worry about the tangles, would we?"

She reached for the scissors and lopped whole hanks of it off, leaving just enough length for the ends to curl a bit before parting it to the side so a few of the locks would fall across his forehead in that rakish manner the palace women loved. "What do you think, Cor?" she asked, having Corin turn his head to and fro.

Cor smirked. "You look like a shorn sheep, Corin."

"False, brother, _you_ are the sheep and _I_ am the lean, hungry bear."

"Like the ugly one Father uses as a rug?"

Aravis applied the hot towel to Corin's face before the banter could go any further. Cor winked at her. "We'll barely be able to recognize you after this," she said, ignoring him. She picked up the brush and bar of soap and whipped it up into a lather, then removed the towel and set to applying the lather to Corin's face.

"You're not going to take it all off, are you?" he asked.

"I am."

"But Aravis—"

"But nothing, Corin. You look frightful with this beard. You can grow it back when you've gained some weight and gotten the color back in your face."

"She's right, y'know," Cor said.

"You're next," she shot back.

"For some reason, I feel very uneasy about this," Corin said as she picked up the blade and began running it carefully along his left cheek.

"Then don't talk."

"Can I request that you not nick anything off?"

"I make no promises."

Cor got up and wandered over. "Ooh, get a bit off his nose, would you? It's a touch too long."

"That would scar!" Corin protested.

"A roguish look. All the rage now, you know."

"We don't want him competing with you," Aravis said to Cor, flicking a bit of the lather at him and pushing him out of the way. "As of now, you've gone a monopoly on the market of roguish facial scars."

"I do look dashing, though," he replied with a grin.

"If you keep getting in my way, I'll give you another!"

"Are we nearly through?" Corin whined. "It's cold without a shirt."

"Yes, yes," Aravis answered, focusing on his neck. Cor had enough sense to leave her alone while the blade was perilously close to Corin's jugular. "There—done."

Corin took the towel from her and rubbed his face clean, wrinkling his nose at the sensation of beardless skin. "Well? Do I look young and rakish?"

"More like a baby bird," Cor answered. "You know, when they have just hatched and haven't grown their feathers in yet and they just sort of—" He imitated their blind peeping.

Corin threw the towel at him. "No one asked you, lambchop."

"Carpet."

"Right," Aravis said. "Corin, you look nice and neat, like a prince should. Go get properly dressed, will you?"

"What's wrong with what I've got on?"

"It's the same thing you've worn since we got here."

He scowled and got up. "Fine."

"You're welcome," Aravis called after him as he left, grabbing his old tunic from the back of the chair.

"Corin verbally assaulted me. Does that give me leave to go back to bed?"

"Sit down, Cor."

"Oh, but do let me remove my shirt like our dear friend—" Cor pulled his tunic off and, puffing out his chest, strutted slowly over to the chair, holding his arms slightly away from his sides in an admittedly amusing caricature of Corin's swaggering walk.

"Cruel," she replied. "He can't help it. You're not nearly as thick as he is."

"True, but I am taller. Besides, I think he looks more like a juvenile bull, whereas I have the streamlined elegance of a colt bred for the racetrack."

"Whatever you say."

"Admit it, you think I'm better looking."

"Sit down, Cor."

"You _do_!"

"You are both equally handsome in your own ways," she replied.

"Ah, but everyone knows _you_ prefer a sleek stallion to a thick-shouldered bull."

"Both are equally useful for different things."

"Such as…?"

"Bulls make for excellent eating. And stallions…"

"Stallions are what?"

"…Good for riding," she finished awkwardly.

Cor began to laugh.

"You know what I mean," she protested over his snorting giggles. "Oh, shut up and sit down!"

He obliged, still chortling, as she dumped the soapy water out of a window and refilled the bowl with the rest of the hot water. "No hard feelings then, eh? I know I'm irresistible."

"You're also intolerable."

"So you've told me."

Aravis cleaned the brush and the razor and then set to work, dampening his hair and cutting it close to his skull to hide the curls—they would grow back soon enough—but leaving just enough length that its beautiful red-gold color was preserved. _He always did have the loveliest hair_, she thought, running her fingers through it. Thick, soft, and the color of a newly minted coin.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her as she dried her hands and set to lathering the brush again.

"I'm wondering if you'll pass anything decent on to your children, or if they'll all end up as pale and gangly as you used to be."

"All foals are a bit funny-looking, Aravis. But most of them do grow into impressive animals."

"Is that really how you think of yourself?"

"In equine terms? Yes. That's how you think of yourself too, I'll wager."

"Hardly."

"You've said it yourself. You want to be a sport horse, a destrier, not a broodmare consigned to the northern pastures."

His observation was so correct that she paused for a moment while lathering his throat. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "There's nothing wrong with being a broodmare," she answered, rubbing away a bit of foam that had gotten on his nose and picking up the razor.

"Of course not. But you—you are a fine specimen, a prize filly. Young, healthy, and blessed with beautiful coloring, too, I might add."

She had to smile a bit.

"No. No breeding pasture for you, Aravis," he went on as she started near his left temple. "You're an animal of action, of intelligence. You're meant for something greater. You need to be on the battlefield, or in the lists, or on the streets of an important city, perhaps popping out a few foals here and there, but only if you feel like it."

She shushed him as she worked along the tricky part of his upper lip, made more complicated now with the gash that was still healing. "Let's pretend what you said is true. How do you suggest I go about avoiding the breeding pasture?"

"You refuse to go to it."

"We don't have a say in where we're sent, Cor."

He was silent for a long time as she worked. "No," he said at last, very quietly. "We don't, do we."

At last, she was finished, and she took a fresh towel and gently patted away the residual moisture and flecks of soap. Cor sat forward and ran his hands first over his smooth cheeks and then through his cropped hair. "I trust I look acceptable?"

"To me you do."

"And your opinion is the only one that I care about, so that's settled."

She dumped out the remainder of the water and threw the towel into the empty bowl. "I'm glad to see that you're feeling a bit better, or at least…"

"I am. Feeling better, that is."

Aravis turned toward him and leaned against the table. "I don't know how much you remember from that night, but I told you then and I'll tell you know—you _can't_ do this alone, Cor. None of it. No one can. It's too much—too much pressure, too much grief, too much…"

"Weight on my shoulders?" he finished dryly. "I remember, Aravis. And you're right. I feel better now because…because you're here with me, because we're talking and thinking and trying to figure this out _together_. We're like a—a lumber mill, you know, with the wheel and the water—we work well as a team when we push against each other."

"Are we horses or are we lumber mills, Cor?"

"Both—no—neither—I—_ugh,_ it's just a metaphor!"

"I get it, I get it."

"Come here." He held out his hand. Aravis put hers into it and he squeezed it, pulling her gently towards him. "I'm sorry for…for lashing out like that earlier. You were frightened, I could tell."

"We all are," she answered. "None of us knows what we're doing, do we? And you—you've lived a life that—that, frankly, was horrid until just a few years ago. Greater people than you have lived through better and done worse. I'm actually rather astounded by how well you've adjusted. Your reaction was perfectly justified, in my opinion."

"You make it sound like our childhoods bear no resemblance to each other."

"They don't, Cor. I was raised a tarkheena, the only daughter of an important tarkaan, and you were a fisherman's slave boy."

"Yes. But they're alike in the aspects that really _matter_."

"I don't follow."

"You're the first person I ever loved," he replied unabashedly. "You're the first person to love me back. And I think it's safe for me to say that _I_ am the first person _you_ ever really loved. That's the similarity, Aravis—you were a slave too, in your own way, no one to love or love you back."

"Rather presumptuous, don't you think?"

"Whatever you say, Aravis." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her onto the chair with him in a tight embrace. "I take back everything I said about wishing you'd never come along."

"Mm. You'll take that back someday, too."

"Most likely."

She pushed his drying hair back from his forehead and kissed the pink scar. "All I want right now is a quiet, restful winter so we can heal from our existing injuries before we get more. There will be plenty of opportunities to get raided by Finnii or dismembered at a tourney in the spring, I'm sure."

Cor laughed. "Always the optimist you are."

There came a quick rap at the door. "Enter," he called easily, looking a bit bewildered when Aravis pushed away and scrambled off his lap. Janey poked her head around the door.

"Ooh, you're both here, excellent," the dark-haired beauty chirped. "We are all a-flutter, you know—"

"What's happened?"

"The viscount is back! A guard spotted him and his retinue coming up along the causeway!"

"You'd best get dressed too, then," Aravis said to Cor.

"Ooh, don't you look like a wee shorn lamb," Janey chortled at him.

"You should see the other wee lamb, then," Aravis replied. "Corin did away with his beard."

"A good thing, too—the viscount stays clean-shaven, my maid says, and finds beards distasteful."

"That is not the reason we shaved," Cor said crossly. "I'm the crown prince, and _I_ decide when I shave and do not."

Aravis rolled her eyes. "Did anyone say when we'd be able to meet his esteemed lateness, Janey?"

Janey shrugged. "It's a bit late for luncheon, so I would think tonight's supper, wouldn't you?"

"I look forward to it," Aravis said as Cor rolled his eyes.

The older woman winked and let herself out.

"'I look forward to it,'" he mimicked as soon as the door shut. "Really?"

"Yes, of course," Aravis retorted, tossing him his tunic. "I'm interested to meet this fellow."

"'Meet' or 'see'?"

"Both."

"Aha!"

"What?"

Before he had a chance to quiz her further, there was another knock at the door. "What is it now?" he said, pulling his tunic on.

The knocker was a bored-looking footman. "Your Royal Highness," he said in a drawling accent, bowing shallowly. "His most honorable lordship requests the honor of your presence in his receiving chambers. May I tell him you consent?"

"I suppose I'm obligated to," Cor said darkly. "Yes, go on, then. We'll follow along in a mo'."

The footman bowed himself out and Cor scowled. "I'm being summoned now, am I? This fellow is insufferable—"

"You haven't even met him," Aravis answered, slipping her arm through his. "Come on, be polite. He is our host, after all."

He grumbled the whole way there, keeping his voice just low enough so the bored footman couldn't hear him. When the man stopped beside a worn oaken door, Cor paused long enough to stuff his tunic into his breeches, then pushed it open and strode through with Aravis trotting to keep up.

"Ah, Your Royal Highness," came a smooth, educated voice. The speaker rose from a high-backed chair behind a mahogany desk and smiled.

Aravis caught her breath. The young man was, as far as she could see, practically perfect. Tall and dark, he had somehow captured the finest aspects of both Archenlandian and Calormene physique: dark eyes peered intently out of a chiseled face, his beard kept shaven to show off his dramatic cheekbones and the sensuous curving mouth that quirked under a long, straight nose. His clothes were tailored to show off his lithe frame, a narrow waist that descended into thighs muscular from horsemanship. He couldn't have been more than five-and-twenty, though he was certainly not as tall as Cor.

"You must be the viscount," Cor answered, leaving Aravis for a moment to grasp the man's arm.

"Please, sire," he said with a winning smile, "call me Khurshid. My father is still viscount."

"Indeed."

"But ah," said Khurshid, catching sight of Aravis. "This I do not recognize."

"Khurshid, allow me to introduce to you Aravis Tarkheena, Lady of Anvard," Cor said as Khurshid swept over to her.

"A tarkheena!" he exclaimed. "I wasn't aware I would be hosting the only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, may Tash rest his spirit. Do forgive me, my lady."

"I rather did wonder at my lodgings," Aravis answered coyly.

"That shall be remedied immediately." Khurshid snapped his fingers and barked a few curt words to a footman, who rushed away as soon as he was done. "Perhaps now you and I may begin on a better footing?"

"Perhaps."

"Well met, Aravis Tarkheena," he said, smoothly taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "Oh dear, I see your travels have taken their toll indeed."

Aravis pulled her callused hand away, smiling but fighting a humiliated blush.

Cor cleared his throat. "Right. Well, we appreciate you hosting us for the winter, Khurshid."

"It is my pleasure, my liege. If there is anything you desire, ask it of my staff and they will procure it for you."

"Of course."

"I hope you will make an effort to join us in our holiday celebrations," Aravis said archly. "We thought it rather a poor show to eat dinner by ourselves every night."

"My," Khurshid answered with a smile that flashed white teeth, "how you have taken to Northern mannerisms, my lady."

Cor frowned and opened his mouth, but Aravis swiftly cut across him with a silky laugh. "Ah, but I have not forgotten the ways of my fathers. Have you?"

"Hardly," he answered with a small smirk. "Quite the opposite, I think you'll find."

"I look forward to it."

"As do I."

"Right," Cor said again, this time more firmly. "We look forward to your company tonight at dinner, Khurshid."

Khurshid bowed as Cor took Aravis's arm and left the room.

"Rather abrupt, I think," she noted as the door swung shut.

"Yes, well, I didn't think I could stand to watch any more flirting," he answered dryly as they marched down the corridor.

She shrugged.

"So you don't deny it?"

"Of course not. I was flirting very intentionally."

Cor scowled.

"Don't do that. It wrinkles your face."

"But _why_?"

"Why not? Didn't you see him? _Devastatingly_ handsome."

"Not even a viscount, though, Aravis. You outrank him tenfold."

"I don't mind."

He scoffed, but before he could say anything else, they came to her room. The door was ajar and the room was empty but for a charmaid who was sweeping it out.

"Oh, I've been moved already," Aravis exclaimed.

The maid dropped the broom and executed a rapid curtsy. "Milady," she stammered. "Your new chambers are in the east wing."

"Ah," Cor said, sounding cheerier. "Near mine and Corin's!"

"Perfect," she retorted.

But her new quarters were much nicer. Like Cor's, there were two rooms, a small bedchamber with a large four-poster bed and a fine wardrobe, and a larger one set up for receiving visitors and resting with good reading material by the roaring fire.

"Better?" he asked as she ran her fingers over the spines of the books resting on the mantelpiece.

"Much," she answered.

Cor's response was interrupted by a gaggle of maids. They were not the same dirt-encrusted ones from the day before, Aravis noticed a split second before they seized her and started shooing her into the bedchamber. "What's this about?" she asked in alarm.

"You must prepare for supper," one of them answered.

Aravis twisted around and looked to Cor, but he just shrugged helplessly and waved. "Useless," she threw back at him.

"Have fun!" he answered as the maids shut the door in his face.

Aravis huffed a sigh and resigned herself to their ministrations.


	57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

_Chapter Fifty-Seven_

It had been so long since Aravis was tended to by proper lady's maids that she felt a bit disconcerted at the amount they were required to do for her. As hulking manservants brought in a heavy iron tub and filled it with hot water, one brushed out her hair and trimmed the ends left ragged from when Cor had cut it with his hunting knife. Another approached her hands with a dull little instrument and pared down her broken nails, then did the same for her feet while another maid juggled a multitude of little vials and poured measured amounts of their contents into the steaming bathwater.

There was something to be said for proper maids, though, she thought lazily as she soaked in the tub before the fire, breathing deeply as one of them worked fragrant oil soap through her hair with skilled fingers. Even in Anvard, after she had fired half her maids in a fit of independence, Aravis always felt a little grubbier, a little more unkempt, than the other ladies who employed a dozen chambermaids or more.

_No_, she sighed to herself, closing her eyes as one of them massaged sharp-smelling depilatory cream over the dark hair on her arms and legs, _when I marry I must rethink that policy_.

After scraping away the fizzled hair, she soaked for a few more minutes, fighting a dull ache that had formed behind her temples, then rose from the water and let them scrub her from head to toe with towels and soft brushes until her dusky skin, once dull from exposure to the elements, practically glowed. They massaged lotions and perfumed oils into her skin as she sat drying her hair before the fire, aided by a maid who rubbed little dabs of pomade on each curl as it popped up. The odor made Aravis's head give a throb.

When her hair was nearly dry, the head lady's maid held three new gowns in front of Aravis. "Which one pleases you, milady?" she asked.

"Those aren't mine. Where did they come from?"

"They are a gift from the steward, milady, on behalf of his lordship the viscount until your wardrobe is refitted."

"Oh?"

"Aye, milady. His lordship has given orders that you are to be provided with a new wardrobe, anything you require. His personal seamstress and tailor will see to your needs."

"Well," Aravis said with pleasure, rising to her feet. "I see no reason to reject his gift."

"I will inform the staff, milady."

"Very good. Meanwhile, I think I should like the green velvet—the two red dresses are a bit too ostentatious for a supper, don't you think?"

"Most certainly, milady."

They helped her into the many layers of cloth such a gown required: two undershifts, a linen skirt for modesty, her worn and dirty stays, two overshifts, and another linen piece to give the velvet gown with fur cuffs a smooth shape. She stepped into it and they pulled it up over her undergarments, nipping and tucking with cleverly placed stitches to make it fit better. The material was worn down in spots, indicating that it had been worn before, and Aravis recognized the style as being distinctly last year, but it was warm and they laced her up with skilled fingers.

Now her head really ached. She rubbed her temples as they sat her down before the small vanity and began to brush out her curls. It took three maids to wrangle her hair back into its proper place, subdued and stuck in position with plenty of pins and more of the pomade. The odor made Aravis woozy for a minute. After her hair was done to their satisfaction, they went at her face with tiny metal pincers, plucking out hairs one by one from her brow and upper lip. _This _was the part of having maids that Aravis hated. The pain made her eyes water, and one of the women darted in with a handkerchief every so often to dab the tears away.

Finally, they finished and smeared a cool cream on the sore, hot patches of skin and set about enhancing her face. _Elnaz must have trained them_, Aravis thought vaguely as they worked silently with their powders and elixirs. _No one is arguing about how best to paint my skin to make it lighter_.

"Does milady wish to inspect herself?"

Aravis opened her eyes. "Oh, you're done?"

"If you are content, milady."

She got up slowly, her pulse throbbing in her temples, and turned to view herself in the long mirror. The reflection startled her for a moment: who was the proud noblewoman gazing back at her? The journey had matured her face, she realized, touching her high tan cheekbones with a perfumed finger. Any trace of girlhood was gone now, and all that was left was a pair of glittering dark eyes, a slight furrow between her brows, and the silvery dent of a newly healed scar under her left eye

"Yes, it'll do," she said absently, tracing the wound. "Is it time to go down yet?"

One of the maids helped her slip on her soft leather shoes. "Yes, milady."

Aravis rubbed vainly at her temples in an attempt to ease the growing ache. Some spiced wine would be just the ticket, she hoped. The maids lifted the hem of her heavy gown and followed her through her chambers and out into the cool corridor, where she was suddenly glad of the fur edging the sleeves and collar. "Thank you," she said to them, "I can manage from here."

They curtsied and let the dress fall to the floor as they scraped back. She sighed. Would it be too much to hope the dinner would be as quiet and genial as it had been the last few nights? She didn't think she could bear a staid courtly dinner with pestering footmen and out-of-tune musicians, not with the headache she was getting.

"Well, don't you look all noble?"

"Hello, Corin," she answered, descending a short staircase to join him. "I could say the same for you."

He rubbed his shaven cheeks and grimaced. "I feel constricted," he grumbled, holding his arm out to her.

"Imagine how I feel."

"Ah, but you have enough grace and elegance to make up for both myself and Cor."

"You look rather dashing yourself, dear Corin." She reached up and pushed his hair back in the rakish style he had taken to wearing at Anvard then slipped her hand around his elbow. "You'll be the belle of the ball."

"Speaking of which, have you spoken to Hana yet?"

He looked so hopeful that she felt bad for having to say, "No, Corin, I haven't even seen her today. I spent it all with you and Cor and Khurshid."

"Khurshid?"

"The viscount's son."

"Ah. Impressions?"

"_Breathtaking _good looks."

"Yes, well, I tend not to notice those things."

"Cor doesn't like him because of his lateness, but I think he just needed an excuse."

"It's because the viscount's son is part Calormene."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, not _that_ way, you dolt—no, Cor's afraid you'll get too attached."

"He told you that?"

"Not exactly. But he didn't like you going home to Calavar last time, either, because he was afraid you wouldn't come back, and I don't see how this is much different."

"Don't worry," she said with a yawn, "there are parts of it I miss every so often, but Anvard is my home now."

"I'm glad to hear it. As I'm sure he is, too."

"That's good, because it's not up for negotiation."

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Aravis opened her mouth to retort, but another bored-looking footman opened a large wooden door and ushered them in. It was the same hall they'd eaten in every night, but it looked so much larger with the light of hundreds of candles and the extra tables pulled out. Khurshid sat in the middle of the long table, surrounded by Dar's men and strange dark fellows Aravis didn't recognize. The sudden onslaught of smells and sounds and strangers made her begin to feel a bit sick.

Corin escorted her to the large table where there was an empty seat between Cor and Khurshid. "Room for the noble lady?" he said, clearing his throat.

Cor turned around, looked at her for a moment, then leapt from his chair. "It would be an honor," he said, bowing deeply and pulling back the seat for her to take.

"An exotic beauty, if every there was one," Khurshid added as she sat down carefully. He was wearing an ornate Calormene tunic, its embroidery done with silver thread that shimmered against the blue cloth. "I trust you found your new maids to your satisfaction, milady?"

She smiled. "Quite, thank you, milord. I appreciate your generosity."

"Ah, but that is how we men must show their admiration, is it not? By showering the object of their adoration with sumptuous gifts." He smiled with lidded eyes and kissed her knuckles. "But oh, your hands make my own hurt. Does His Royal Highness not take care of you?"

"I do well enough, thank you," Cor interjected irritably from Aravis's other side.

Aravis gave the smooth, silky laugh she reserved for men like this and accepted Khurshid's offer of wine. "I am sure you understand the perils of the elements, my dear lord viscount."

"All too well, I am sure." He was still holding Aravis's hand with his long, dry fingers, and he inspected its cracks and calluses with a practiced eye. "I have just the remedy for such imperfections, should you desire."

_They are not imperfections_. Aravis pulled her hand away and placed it in her lap with a slight smile that made her pulse throb in her ears. "Perhaps you might show me later."

Khurshid lifted his eyebrows as he savored his wine. Thankfully, Dar caught his attention and pulled him to the other side of the long table, and Aravis drank the rest of the wine in an effort to push back the encroaching pain she could almost see in the corners of her eyes. Each bite made her stomach churn.

"I don't recognize that frock," Cor said, running a finger along her fur collar. "I would have remembered seeing you swan about with a dead mink around your neck."

"It's warm," she answered defensively. "I'll bet you wouldn't mind wearing a dead thing around your neck if it was warm, either. Besides, it's not my frock. My maids brought it to me."

"I wouldn't be caught dead in such a thing."

She frowned into her soup, feeling flushed. Even Corin had appreciated the effort that had been put into her appearance, and damn it all if she hadn't sat through the whole process just for Cor to make a wisecrack about her hand-me-down dress. "You might just," she snapped.

Cor's eyes widened. "What have I done now?"

"You could have said 'Heavens, Aravis, you look stunning' or 'You are lovely tonight,' not 'you've got a dead mink round your throat.'"

"You've never cared about what I thought before."

"I've _always_ cared about what you thought."

"Well, you can understand my confusion, seeing as you're always stunning and look lovely every day."

Aravis had no ready comeback for his comment, and her embarrassment made the pain worse. She pinched the skin between her brows.

"Your Highness, I have a proposal for you," Khurshid said silkily, pouring Aravis more wine.

Cor frowned.

"I have been called to Muthill, my liege town, tomorrow, for some business matters," the viscount went on.

"Oh, you didn't get a chance to attend to them when you were gone?" Cor answered, and Aravis didn't miss the coolness in his voice.

"You understand how it is, my liege."

"Of course."

"As I was putting my affairs in order, I thought that you and your men might wish to accompany me and my men as we go about our business there. It is a lovely town."

"I think we should go," Corin piped up. "How far from here is it?"

"Several hours' ride," Khurshid answered. "I intend to stay a few nights in my inn there."

"I'd rather stay, I think," said Cor.

Aravis drained her goblet again. "No, Cor, I do think you ought to go. Get out and see your kingdom. Give Raider some exercise."

"It is settled, then," Khurshid said smoothly. "We'll leave first thing tomorrow morning."

Cor scowled.

A troupe of footmen brought out the next course, a selection of spiced and roasted meats. They set the boar in front of Aravis, and the smell of the sizzling flesh hit her like a slap in the face, triggering a bout of nausea so strong she nearly vomited on the table.

"Please remove that," she snapped, and the consternated footman picked up the platter and moved it to a place further down the table.

The nausea subsided momentarily, but the strength of the discomfort that had seized her left her feeling weak. Her head pounded.

"Are you all right, Aravis?" Cor asked quietly. "You look awfully peaky."

She shook her head and instantly regretted it. "My head hurts."

"You seemed fine earlier."

"It came on very suddenly while I was dressing."

Cor put his hand on her back, and the full strength of ache behind her temples surged forth as she let her guard down. "_Bloody_ hell…" she hissed as she leaned forward and pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"It's probably from that fall," he said grimly. "Elnaz said you'd have headaches. Let's get you to bed."

"No," she said quickly, seizing his tunic as he went to stand up. "I'm all right. I don't want Khurshid to get the wrong idea."

"The wrong idea of what, milady?" Khurshid asked, sliding back into his seat.

Aravis quickly put on the expression she was used to wearing around men like him, one of eminent neutrality but with a twinkle in her eyes that each man could interpret to his liking. "I was merely expressing to His Highness that I don't wish to offend, but I find myself quite unable to eat another bite of this generous meal."

"I agree," Khurshid said. "I find my Archenlandian cook to be overzealous with the proportions. My dear cousin Elnaz seems to have forgotten that too much boar makes one round."

Cor choked on his wine and Aravis had to put her hand on his leg to keep him quiet. The movement made her queasy. "I'm sure it is a complement to your staff," she answered smoothly. "Once the snows melt, she will get less round, I am confident."

"She certainly will, after I have a word with my cook."

"Oh, do you really think it necessary?"

"Quite, milady. While I trust you will maintain your figure, I must ensure that my betrothed does, as well."

"_Really now_," Cor said indignantly, going red. "Elnaz is thin as a twig, have you even seen—"

Aravis put her hand on him again. "Betrothed? I wasn't aware—"

"Amgheza Elnaz and I have an agreement," Khurshid answered. "I require a wife of high breeding to run the castle for me when I take my father's place as viscount. Elnaz requires a wealthy protector, as her mother's estate has gone to her eldest brother."

Cor made a sound, and Aravis tightened her grip on him. "I see. And when do you expect to wed?"

"Soon," Khurshid answered. "Elnaz is descended from a line of women notoriously infertile, and I desire to get a son on her as soon as possible."

"I have to get some air," Cor said coldly. He threw his napkin onto the table and stalked off.

"He hasn't been feeling well," Aravis said weakly to Khurshid, her head throbbing with the lie. How desperately she wanted to join Cor: the flickering light of the torches made the walls look like they were warping to and fro. "I'm sure he'll return."

Khurshid smiled thinly and filled her goblet with more wine.

Soon, Cor came back, still a bit flushed but otherwise calm. "The snow has fallen off."

"It does that, Your Highness. I'm afraid my scholar tells me to expect more as the week goes on."

"How much do you normally receive?"

"At this time of year, sire, we have been known to receive snow upwards of four feet deep."

Corin, who had overheard the comment, gave a low whistle. The sound pierced Aravis's brain and buried itself deep inside, sending out waves of pain so strong her vision darkened for a moment and her fingers went numb. Her goblet crashed to the ground, splintering on the stone as wine dripped from the tablecloth like blood.

"You're _not_ all right," Cor hissed as he swooped down with a towel and helped the footmen mop up the mess.

"Clumsy me," she said with a high, false giggle.

He watched her keenly as the next course, the dessert, was set out. Aravis registered the fact that the jiggling gelatins and crystal-covered iced creams didn't smell as strongly as the previous course, but it then occurred to her that her headache was beyond the control of outer stimulus. She broke out in a cold sweat.

"Have some glazed fruit," Khurshid said ebulliently, placing a crystal dish of the little dried bits of color in front of her.

It was an effort to raise her hand and grasp a piece of the food. "They look Calormene," she managed.

"Indeed—imported directly from the southern provinces. You have fine taste, milady."

She nibbled on a corner of a petrified strawberry. The heady sweetness of the fruit filled her mouth and nose, and suddenly, she felt wrong. Very, very wrong.

"I think I need some air," she said lightly. "My lord Sidrat, I will be back momentarily."

Cor took one look at her face and leapt up, helping her from her seat.

"Just take me outside," she gritted out, clinging to his arms as her knees threatened to give out. The walls were closing in on her.

He managed to get her through a heavy oak door and onto a wide veranda that looked out into a vast white garden. The cold air whipped her cheeks and skirts and tore at her hair with icy fingers, and she released her grip on Cor and stumbled to the edge of the platform.

"Aravis," he said, his voice echoing against the side of the castle, "is it your head?"

Aravis had just a moment to nod in affirmation before the pain reached a burning hand into her gut and wrenched it hard. She doubled over and vomited violently, her eyes tearing up from the strain as her mouth filled with the acrid taste of bile and wine.

"Bloody hell, Aravis—"

The pain was all encompassing, radiating from the bottomless pit of her brain to every inch of her body. "My head," she choked out, clutching at her brow with desperate hands.

There was a tugging sensation at the back of her head, and she realized that Cor had knelt beside her in the snow and was quickly pulling out the pins that kept her thick hair piled up high.

Another wave of pain made her vomit again, this time ripping out a sob at the same time.

"You're really ill," Cor said in a tense voice. "I'm going to tell Khurshid—"

"_No_." She grabbed his sleeve. "Take me to my room—_ah_—he can't know."

"Let me get Hana, then. She can help you. I don't know how to help you, Aravis, and that frightens me!"

He didn't wait for an answer. When he had scrambled away, Aravis took a fistful of clean snow and shoved it into her mouth, chewing hard on the lump to clean away the taste of vomit still on her tongue. It only made the pain worse.

"Oh, dear, oh dear oh dear—"

Janey and Hana were rushing towards her, clad in a nice silk gowns Aravis did not recognize, though it might have been because of the strange shapes she saw floating in the air everywhere she looked. Cor was right behind them.

"Is it your head?" Hana asked loudly.

Aravis flinched and recoiled as the movement sparked another wave of agony.

"Get her up, Cor. We need to get her out of those stays and into bed right away."

"Is she going to be all right?"

"She's in quite a lot of pain," Janey said briskly. "Look at the way her eyes are—I think it's the kind of headache my father calls Giant's Bane."

"What can we do?" Cor again.

"A dark bed, tea, cold compresses, and oil of poppy, if his lordlingship has any."

"Right. Go see if he does. Hana, help me get her up."

Two pairs of hands slipped under Aravis's arms and hoisted her out of the snow. She bit back a cry of pain and forced her legs to move. "There's another door," Cor said. "It leads right into the corridor, so we needn't go through the great hall."

And so the three of them limped quickly to Aravis's chambers. She hardly recognized them at first, and fear gripped her stomach as she struggled to hold on to rational thought, clinging desperately to memories of Cor's face and the three long pink scars on his forearm.

Soon, Hana had Cor lighting a blazing fire in the bedchamber as she ripped through the seams that held the velvet dress to Aravis's body, stripping her down to nothing but a shift.

"Lay back now," she instructed as she helped Aravis onto the soft, wide mattress.

Aravis resisted—the mere idea of laying down made her writhe in pain—but Hana pushed her down and dampened a cloth to pat her cheeks with.

"Get some snow," she heard her snap.

Cor opened a window and came hurrying over with a handful of snow. Hana put the ball in a bowl and let it melt, then applied the ice-cold kerchief to Aravis's blazing temples. "You mustn't cry, Aravis," Cor said to her. "It'll just make it worse."

_I don't know how it can be worse_, Aravis thought rapidly, thrashing about as she struggled to find a position to ease the pain. She found herself clawing at her temples.

The weight on the mattress changed, and she suddenly felt Cor lift her up and brace her against his shoulder rather than a lumpy pillow. "Don't do that," he said gently, pushing her hands away and shushing her slurred protestations. He loosened the pomaded tangles of her hair and brushed them back from her forehead, his cool fingers stroking her brow and temples with a steady light pressure.

As he whispered nonsensical strings of words into her ear and held her tight, keeping her from giving in to the pain that made her want to writhe, she felt her heart rate slow. The pain began to retreat to her head, leaving her legs and shoulders trembling with weakness.

The door to her bedroom door crashed open, making her jump. "I've got it," Janey crowed.

"Quiet," Cor said sharply, but Aravis had lost her grip on the pain and it began to claw its way through her limbs again.

"Give it to her right away," Cor said. "Can't you see how sick she is—"

"Not yet, madam Janey!"

Ram's voice. Aravis opened her eyes as much as she could and saw the massive man, his ginger hair swinging in his face, lean over her. "Milady, can you hear me?" he said slowly and clearly.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cor said angrily, the panic in his voice amplifying the pain in Aravis's head. Ram shushed him.

"Milady Aravis, this is very important."

"Yes," she breathed, her voice sounding very far away. "I—can hear you."

"Good. What is the matter?"

"My head—"

A pair of massive hot hands prodded her neck and pulled at her eyes as he looked closely into her face. "I see. What did you eat at dinner?"

_Eat? What a concept_. She struggled to remember. "Er…potato soup. Bread. A bit of pheasant. A bit of strawberry. Wine—so much wine…"

"Did you have any boar?" Ram's voice was sharp.

"No…no…"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"The wine. Where did it come from?"

"A flask…"

Cor cut it. "It was a clay jar, like any other. I drank some myself."

"How do you feel, Your Highness?"

"Bloody angry that you won't give Aravis that damn poppy oil!"

The big man heaved a sigh. "Yes. Give it to her."

She shut her eyes gratefully, feeling hot tears spill down into her hair, and soon a cold spoon met her lips. "Drink it all now," Cor said gently, wiping away her tears. "It'll be all right."

The poppy oil was acrid and it burned all the way down, but Cor resumed his soothing murmuring and Aravis retreated inside herself, hid from the pain, cowered from it, and waited.

* * *

She woke with a start.

The room was quiet and filled with the soft grey light of early morning. Someone had closed the shutters and drawn the curtain, and she was covered with and surrounded by a mound of soft, warm blankets; the fire was raked down skillfully. Only then, when she had satisfied herself that all was safe, did she feel the full impact of the heaviness in her limbs. The pain in her head, that blinding heat, had retreated and blinked out, but the residue of the agony she had experienced still lingered in her aching shoulders and stiff legs. Poppy oil was useful for inducing deep, dreamless sleep and wiping out pain—she had seen it used for amputations on the tourney field—but it, too, lingered in the patient's system for days after they woke from it. She could feel a strange slowness in her fingers and toes, as though they were miles away from her brain.

Just then, the blanket mound she was curled up against stirred, and she realized after a moment that the cozy warmth that she felt was Cor's lanky frame. In the shadows of her bed, she couldn't see any more of him than the mound of his shoulder and a glimmer of light in his fair eyes, but he reached over and brushed a lock of hair off her cheek with lingering fingers. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a voice husky with sleep.

"Better," she answered. "Why haven't you gone to bed?"

"Hana and I thought it wise to stay. Make sure you were all right. She's on the divan."

His voice, though soft and quiet, was warmer and deeper than a whisper, barely above a murmur and heavy with relaxation. She had never heard him use it before, but oh, had she heard it from others—many a night had she lain restlessly awake as a girl, hearing the soft, sibilant language of lovers drift past her open window.

Somehow under the covers, she found the soft cloth of his tunic and curled up against him.

"Mm," he said, shifting so her head rested between his shoulder and chin as he slid a solid arm around her. "So, not so well."

"Thank you, Cor," she murmured.

He yawned, slipped his hand under hers, and fell back into a doze, his breath coming light and shallow. She was tempted to join him, but then she rubbed his arm with the tips of her fingers until he woke again. "Hngh?" he said. "'Smatter?"

"You should probably get up. I think Khurshid wants to leave early."

"Not going."

"You ought to."

"No."

"Cor…"

He rolled over and took her with him, pinning her to the mattress with his arm. "Go back to sleep, Ar'vis."

The offer was tempting, but she roused herself with difficulty and ran her hand through his hair until it stood on end. "He won't treat anyone any better if you don't go with him."

"I want to stay wi' you."

"I'll be all right."

"Hmph."

"_Cor_."

"_What_?"

"Do us all a favor and get him away for a few days. Take your sketchbook along and collect some samples."

He sighed and begrudgingly opened his eyes, gazing at her resignedly. "Do you really want me to go?" he asked.

"No," she admitted. "But it's a good idea."

At last he nodded. "Fine." He rolled back and sat up, taking a deep breath as he scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "But I'm leaving Ram here."

"Thank you," Aravis said, tugging his tunic into place. "Come say goodbye before you leave."

He smiled a little. "Go back to sleep, Aravis."

She obeyed immediately, and was dozing already before he left the room.

What seemed like only a few moments later, she was woken by her sagging mattress, and she looked over to see Cor fully dressed in his homespun traveling clothes. "Goodbye, Aravis," he said, quietly so as not to wake Hana.

"Be good," she replied with a yawn.

"I could say the same. Try to save the excitement for when I get back."

"No promises."

He chuckled, a cozy sound that made her stomach go all warm, and leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss along her left cheekbone before getting up. She watched him go, the conflicting sensations of his soft lips and fresh scruff still tingling on her skin.

As soon as the door had clicked shut behind him, she reached up and touched the spot. She had not expected to feel anything unusual, but when her fingers found the minute dent that marked the location of a silvery scar, she was not at all surprised.

* * *

_A/N: Author confession – I have to look up how to spell Khurshid's name every time I go to type it._


	58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

_Chapter Fifty-Eight_

Aravis spent the day in bed. When Hana woke, she got up and opened the curtains, and Aravis tried to go rake up the fire to help but made it only a few steps across the cold flagstones before her legs gave way and she toppled to the floor. "Poppy oil is quite strong," Hana said chidingly as she helped her back into bed. "You'll have to wait for it to wear off completely."

"I don't want to be a burden."

"Nonsense. What can I bring you?"

She thought for a moment. "My needlework. It's wrapped in flannel in the very bottom of my biggest satchel."

Hana rooted around in the wardrobe, digging out the package Aravis had specified. "You get started on this, and I'll go get your maids to bring you breakfast."

"Thank you," Aravis called after her as she slipped out. When she was gone, she unwrapped the little bundle, holding her breath as she checked to make sure there were no water stains, as her satchel had been through rather a lot since Shadesport. The cloth and its contents were clean and dry, and she shook out the white tunic, running her fingers over the soft cloth. There was quite a lot of work to be done on it before it would look as fine as the one Khurshid had worn the night before.

She wondered how the men had gotten on that morning. Neither Cor nor Corin had burst into her room unannounced, so she was inclined to think things had gone smoothly, at least at first. _I hope they don't kill each other_.

The door opened a crack. "'Ello?" came a high, timid voice.

"Come in, Ragna," Aravis said with a sigh. "I'm well awake."

Ragna pushed the door open and tiptoed in, her long red hair brushed to a shine and plaited back neatly. "'Ow are you feelin'?" she whispered tentatively, fingers flitting by her mouth.

"Just fine, thank you," Aravis replied politely.

Someone pushed Ragna further into the room. "Budge over, beanpole," came Janey's brisk voice, "we're all waiting out here!"

Aravis watched with surprise as Ragna, Janey, and Findora trooped in, all walking gingerly and looking nervous, as though their mere presence could trigger another flare of pain. Behind them came Hana and Ram, whose hands were full of a fully laden tray. "Breakfast has arrived," he announced, coming over to her side of the bed and placing the tray on her knees.

"Gently," Ragna squeaked.

"Aravis is built like an ox," Janey said stoutly. "A mere plate won't break her in two."

Aravis looked at them crowded around her bed, their faces scrubbed and faded frocks neat and clean. "Well, go on then," she said with a grin, "sit down!"

Janey hurried out and dragged in one of the settees from the sitting room as Aravis tucked into her breakfast, a whole plate of warm toast with jam the color of rubies. The women settled in, cooing about how comfortable the piece of furniture was.

"May I?" Ram asked politely once Aravis had eaten a bit.

Her mouth full, she nodded, and Ram peered into her eyes as he pulled the skin taught around them, felt the sensitive spots under her jaw, and took her pulse. "There's no change," he pronounced, sitting back.

She nearly choked on her tea. "Is—is that bad?"

Ram smiled. "Quite the opposite, milady. I feared last night that you had…er…come across certain toxins, perhaps accidentally. But I am confident now that it was just as you said, a horrid headache."

"You thought I had been poisoned," Aravis answered, sipping more of her tea.

Ram nodded.

She shook her head. "No. I would have known if I had been."

"With all due respect, milady, some poisons can be hard to detect until it is too late."

Aravis set her teacup down and gave him a small smile. "You act as though it had never happened to me before."

"Milady?"

"I am the daughter of a powerful tarkaan and the Lady of Anvard. I displease quite a lot of people by merely existing."

The room went silent, and Aravis knew exactly what the women were thinking: and whose idea was it for them to become queen?

Ram nodded. "I understand."

She eyed him over the rim of her cup as she lifted it again. "Someday you'll tell me who you are, Ram."

"When the time is right, milady," Ram answered neutrally.

Just then, the door opened and a slippered toe peeked around it, followed shortly by a billowing grey dress. "Come in, Elnaz," Aravis called.

Elnaz peered into the room, but her hand flew to her veil when she saw Ram and her eyes widened a bit. Aravis understood: a decade ago, a man like Ram would have frightened her, too.

"I beg your pardon," Ram said to her, standing, "but I fear I trespass too long."

"Thank you for your care, Ram. Cor will be relieved to hear how attentive you have been."

He bowed low and slipped from the room, executing a perfect Tashbaani bow to Elnaz as she stood aside for him to pass. Once he was gone, Elnaz shut the door and tentatively removed her veil, revealing a long, flat nose and the same mouth Aravis saw every time she looked in the mirror.

Hana, Janey, Ragna, and Findora stared at her as she crossed the room. Elnaz had adhered to the mannerisms of mature Calormene women, Aravis observed, something that she suspected had been brought about by their host. The girl walked lightly on the tips of her toes, her movements so fluid that she seemed to float. Somehow, though, she made a faint musical jingle with every step, her gown flowing about her like a shroud.

"This is my cousin, Elnaz," Aravis said by way of introduction.

The others murmured a greeting.

"I thank Tash for his benevolence," Elnaz replied, bowing her way to Aravis's side. "He has seen fit to sustain you yet another day."

"Yes, thank you," Aravis answered. She distinctly heard Ragna whisper "'Oo's Tash?" to Hana, who shrugged.

"I was afraid you might still be feeling the after-effects of your injury."

"You were right. I feel better now, but the poppy oil still has its hold on me."

"As is to be expected." Elnaz plucked at the tunic in Aravis's lap. "I see you are making a _nimruzan_."

"Yes," Aravis said, setting aside the tray and shaking out the tunic for the benefit of the four others. They all gazed at the fabric, its detailed design of the heavens only partially completed. "A _nimruzan_ is a Calormene tradition—a lord or leader always has several in his wardrobe, all yoke-shouldered tunics with different celestial patterns embroidered on it. His lordship the viscount's son wore one last night."

"It's _beau'iful_," Ragna breathed. "'Oo is it for?"

"Cor," Aravis answered.

Elnaz looked chidingly at her. "Dear cousin, you know as well as I that the _nimruzan_ is made by the tarkaan's wife or mother."

"And Cor has neither," she answered defensively. "Give me that needle."

The girl did just that and retreated to the divan, where she perched next to Findora. Aravis turned her focus to her needlework.

"'Ow do Calormenes celebrate Yuletide?" Ragna asked tentatively after a few minutes of silence.

"We don't," Aravis answered. Elnaz shook her head. "It's a northern invention."

"They say the Great Lion of Narnia invented it," Findora said. Everyone turned to look at her—those were the first words she had said in quite some time.

"Yes," Hana said encouragingly. "They say that there was a drought one year, in the high north, and the following winter was fierce. An old lord felt so poorly for his tenants that he rode an old donkey through the driving snow to give their children toys he had carved himself. One day, when the snow was getting deep, his donkey gave out but the old lord was determined to give the rest of his tenants' children gifts, so he pressed on."

"My favorite par'," Ragna said, bouncing in her seat.

Janey picked up the story. "They say that the Lion appeared out of the snow, picked the old lord up on his back, and went about to the tenants' settlements so quickly that the old lord was back in bed by dawn."

"'Ow I should love to meet 'im," Ragna said wistfully.

Aravis smiled to herself.

"He hasn't been seen in the north since the Abandonment," Janey sighed. "And that was how many years ago?"

"Six," Aravis answered. "Six years since the kings and queens of Narnia disappeared."

Hana shuddered. "I remember when I heard. A courier came to our inn—his horse had dropped dead of exhaustion in the mountains. He was bringing the message from Narnia."

"Oh, yes," Janey said grimly, "it was quite horrible, wasn't it?"

"They were good people, indeed," said Aravis.

"You met them?" Findora breathed. "The four rulers?"

"A very long time ago," Aravis replied, smiling now at the memory.

There was silence, and she looked up to see that the faces of all five women were turned expectantly to her. "What?" she asked

"Tell us abou' the four rulers," Ragna urged. Even Findora looked breathless.

"It's a long story."

"Even better," said Janey.

Aravis sighed and settled back against her pillows, beginning the intricate layers of the fiery sun she was embroidering. "Very well. I was ten years old, and my father had decided I was to be betrothed to a man named Ahoshta Tarkaan, who was at least sixty years old and had a hump on his back. Besides that, his face resembled that of an ape."

And so she told her rapt audience the whole story of how she and Cor—then Shasta—had stolen themselves away and snuck into Archenland ahead of the Calormene army. As familiar as the tale was to her, though, there were details she left out, memories too dear to share. How the dagger she held in her hand, that cursed blade, had chilled her fingers despite the heat of that long-ago morning. How the tip pierced a tiny hole in her gown and pressed mercilessly against her flesh as she took what was supposed to be her last breath. How little she had thought of the dirty barbarian boy who followed her, smelling of fish and sweaty horse. How the Lion's claws bit through her armor and pierced her soul as they tore those three jagged scars across her back. How desperately she wanted that little barbarian boy to survive.

"And that is how I came to live at Castle Anvard," she concluded, nearly pricking her finger with her needle.

"So 'at's why you call 'im Shasta," Ragna said quietly.

Aravis looked sharply at her. "I don't call him that."

"Yes," Ragna answered, her blue eyes big and sad. "You do, when you think no one can hear you."

Her blood ran cold. When was the last time she had uttered that name? She couldn't even remember. "I…I don't—"

"You do," Hana said gently. "Last night, after you took the poppy oil, you called him Shasta and said your father was coming."

Aravis forced a laugh. "I must have been quite delusional then. My father is dead. Ha ha!"

_So that's why he stayed._

She jabbed her needle into the cloth and aggressively embroidered the northern star.

"When you feel be'er, know wha' we shou' do?" Ragna piped up, swiftly changing the subject.

They looked at her.

"A _Christmas_ tree," she enthused. "This 'ere castle 'as got _loads_ of 'em all 'round—we could go out 'n chop one down, 'ave it decorated afore the menfolk get back."

"Yes," Findora ventured softly. "I would quite like that. Brynw—my family did one every year."

"Then we shall," Aravis decreed. "Tomorrow. I'll speak to Ram and have him procure us the proper equipment. Elnaz, do you think you could find trimmings?"

Elnaz looked nervous. "I don't know what you mean," she said uneasily.

"For the tree," Janey swooped in. "I'll help you, dear girl—I was known for my tree-trimming prowess at home in Hiddlestown."

"I'm not entirely sure his lordship the viscount's son will allow it," Elnaz protested.

"Nonsense," Aravis answered. "Yes, he's Calormene, but his father is an Archenlander, no? I'm sure he will make an exception for us."

"I feel quite unsure."

"He is your betrothed, is he not? He will want to please you."

Elnaz blanched. "You misunderstand, cousin," she stammered. "He is not my betrothed."

Aravis wondered if, in the fog of her misery, she had misheard Khurshid the night before. "Oh, do forgive me, cousin. I thought he told me you were promised to each other."

"We—we have an agreement," Elnaz managed. "But it is not a betrothal yet."

She understood immediately. Khurshid had adopted an ancient custom that of the Calormenes that dictated that a young, unmarried Calormene noblewoman was to be put under the guardianship of her closest male relative in the case of orphanage or extreme circumstances. If the woman was unclaimed upon reaching the age of marriage or, in Elnaz's case, an agreed-upon date, she was to marry said relative or a man of the relative's choosing if the relative was too closely related or otherwise unable to wed. Such would have happened to Aravis if her father had died before promising her to Ahoshta. If she read her cousin's face right, then, Elnaz's date was fast approaching.

"Well, I see no reason to worry," she said confidently. "There is not much he can deny _me_, at the very least, as I outrank him significantly."

"Tomorrow, then," Hana said, clapping her hands.

So it was settled. They spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet solitude, closeted in Aravis's chambers as the snow fell steadily past the windows. While the company of women soothed Aravis's soul in a way no man could, she found herself wondering how the men were getting on, trekking through the snow the way they were. She was now very much regretting pushing Cor to join them: it felt queer to know that, after so many months together, he suddenly was far away, beyond her reach. It wasn't right.

Sleep did not come easy for her that night. Perhaps it was because she had slept so much during the day, but when the fire was raked down and Hana gone off to her own room, Aravis tossed and turned, expecting to see Cor's shoulder or feel his hand or hear his breathing at any moment. It was far too quiet and empty in her room. When she did sleep at last, it was restless, punctuated by periods of fear when her father's spectral hand reached up out of the shadows of her dreams and grasped at her.

The next morning, she found that her legs had returned to their full strength, the last residue of the poppy oil gone for good. Still, it took her most of the morning to feel up to dressing warmly and heading with the other women towards the high stone gate, the path between it and the castle having been shoveled by assiduous gardeners. Ram strode alongside them, his long red hair plaited carefully out of his face so it wouldn't blow in the snowy wind. He bore an axe and a set of heavy chains over one shoulder, leading a massive white-footed draft horse with the other hand.

"We needn't go deep into the forest, do we?" Findora asked Aravis quietly.

"Of course not," Aravis answered. "And you'll stay by me anyway, won't you?"

Findora smiled briefly.

Ragna, who was walking backwards so she could see the castle in its entirety, said, "Let's get t'_hugest_ tree we find! 'Is lordship said we cou' pu' it in t' _great 'all_—_eee_, what an idea!"

It startled Aravis sometimes to remember that Ragna was only sixteen, and other times she was not surprised at all. "Yes," she called out, her breath fogging in the air before her, "we should indeed look for an impressive specimen."

"Aye, there's very little this boy can't handle," Ram said approvingly. He patted the shoulder of the beast that plodded along beside him.

They hurried ahead to where the massive gates marked the edge of the cleared pathway. At a shout from Ram, the guards raised the iron grate so they could pass under it, and the snow quickly grew so deep even Ram, who was taller than Cor, had trouble slogging through it.

"I think we might stay close to the edge of the forest after all," Aravis said to Findora, whose dark brows lifted a bit with a small smile.

As deep as the snow was, it really wasn't very cold, and Aravis threw back her hood as a glimmer of sunshine peeked out from behind heavy clouds and then disappeared again. Ragna and Janey ran ahead, their cloaks dragging behind them as they pointed and conferred together about potential specimens. Even Findora caught up with them and spotted a very fine-looking tree indeed, which unfortunately proved to have a fungus growing on its lower limbs.

Ram was whistling a traditional Christmas tune, the draft horse blowing and nibbling at bits of foliage that poked out of the snow here and there. In the distance, Aravis could see clumps of mistletoe, distinctive despite its heavy blanket of snow.

"Hana," she said conversationally, walking a bit fast to gain some distance from Ram, "I've been thinking more about what you said regarding marrying Cor."

To Hana's credit, she sighed only a little. "Yes?"

"What did Corin do to you?"

As Aravis had hoped, Hana looked surprised. "Wh—what do you mean?"

"Well, you are clearly angry with him."

"Yes, but…he didn't…no, it's nothing like that."

"Oh." Aravis feigned confusion.

Hana, looking a bit flushed, bit her lip. "Why?" she burst out a moment later. "Did he say something to you?"

"Not as such," Aravis lied. "I just…observed. You argued with him before we got here."

"He disappointed me," she said softly, crossing her arms. "Deeply. In many ways."

Aravis watched her. As far as Hana had come since the day she met her at Wolfdell, she had never been good at keeping her emotions off her face, and Aravis was very adept at reading people (one had to be in her position). As far as she could tell, Hana was not _merely_ disappointed. In fact, Aravis recognized in her face the very way she had felt when Cor proposed to Gyneth—angry, blindsided, and _hurt_.

Suddenly, Aravis became very suspicious. "Is Corin why you don't want to marry Cor?" she asked bluntly.

Hana blanched. "What?"

"Do you want to marry Corin instead?"

"No, no, not at all," Hana gasped, stopping in her tracks. "Oh, heavens—is that what he said? Is that what he thinks of me?"

"No," said Aravis, "but it's what I suspect."

"You're w-wrong, Aravis. I do _not_ want to marry Corin. I—I want him on the other side of the _kingdom_—"

"Oh, come now," she said, alarmed at Hana's visceral response. "It can't be nearly that bad."

Hana shook her head vigorously. "You must rid yourself of that idea, Aravis. Forget it immediately. I do not want to marry Corin, and I never will."

"Very well," Aravis said with a deep breath. "I'm sorry for…getting you all flustered. Never mind."

Ram and his draft horse came up behind them, the tune Ram was whistling loud and cheery. "I think they've found one," he said broadly. "Shall I chop it down, milady?"

Glad of the subject change, Aravis moved forward and inspected the tree. It indeed was very fine, a deep green color with thick needles and sturdy boughs. "Yes," Aravis said with a nod, "it's lovely."

Ram held the axe out to her handle-first. "Would you like to do the first honors, milady?"

"I would," Aravis said, smiling at him. She seized the axe. The other women scuttled away as she circled the tree, looking for the best place to start hacking. If they wanted it to fall out, not further into the forest, she would have to cut on the outside, and so she discarded her cloak, rolled up her sleeves, planted her feet, and slammed the axe into the bark with all her strength. Splinters flew, and Ragna cheered as she wrenched it out of the wood. Sap oozed over the open wound.

_Thwack_.

She wasn't sure what hurt more—the effort it took to get the blade of the tool to bury deep in the wood, or the jolt of the contact.

_Thwack. Thwack._

Finally, she had enough, and she left the axe embedded in the trunk for Ram to take over. "Brilliant," Janey crowed as she shakily donned her cloak again, palms bright red.

Ram lifted the axe like it was made of straw and hammered at the trunk, his face going pink as the sweat streamed down his forehead. The tree began to groan. "Here it comes!" Janey cried, and they all scurried backwards as it creaked, listed, and toppled to the ground, spraying them with snow and needles.

"Fine work, Ram," Aravis said.

The big man wiped his brow and grinned. "It is a fine tree, milady! Let's get it chained up and back to the castle."

Ragna hopped onto the tree as, the chains wrapped around the trunk and boughs and hitched to the draft's harness, they moved back in the direction they had come. "Won' the menfolk be _tickled_ when they see t'tree?" she giggled, tossing her red hair. "Oooh, I can't _wait _to see Cor's face!"

Aravis fought a wave of irritation. It was a perfectly logical thing to say—the girl was as besotted with Cor as they day they had met, and she _was_ betrothed to be married to him, in a way.

_Still._

What was worse was that she did not _shut up_ about him while they waited for manservants to install the tree in its proper place, nor did she cease when dusty chests of faded old glass bulbs and thin ribbon were brought out of storage along with long ladders. "I bet 'e's wicked good a' givin' presents," she squealed, hanging a bauble from one of the boughs. "Issee, Ar'vis?"

Aravis, who was quite a few feet up on one of the ladders, made a noncommittal noise.

"Oh, c'mon," Ragna pressed, beaming up at her. "Tell us—wha' 'as 'e given you in t'past?"

She thought immediately of the book, that lovely, beautiful volume, and felt like crying. "He convinced His Majesty the king to invite a Calormene circus to Anvard one year," she said carefully. "It was a whole week of beautiful colors and lovely dancing."

Ragna sighed as though that were the most romantic thing in the world. "I wonder wha' 'e'll give me," she said almost as an afterthought. "I 'ave just the thing for 'im."

"What's that?" Janey said, suddenly interested in the conversation. "What did you say?"

Ragna blushed and giggled. "I 'ave just the thing for 'im?"

Aravis could hear the suspicion in Janey's voice even from her position. "And what is that, pray tell?"

"'Tis not for pryin' ears, Janey!" Ragna retorted.

Aravis was so angry she could hardly see straight. With as much composure as she could manage, she started descending the ladder, her hands trembling with suppressed emotion.

Suddenly, her foot slipped, and her stomach bottomed out as she dropped a few inches before a pair of firm hands caught her waist and lowered her carefully to the floor. "Ram!" she breathed, trembling now with fear.

"You must be cautious, my lady," he said sternly, pointing at her silk slippers. "You are too important to risk your life on high ladders with slick footwear."

"I needn't worry, though, with you nearby," she answered, tossing him a bauble to hang.

He did so obligingly, but his face remained solemn. "I may not always be, milady."

"Well, I pray that day never comes," she answered, and turned back to the tree.

* * *

Ram's words stayed in Aravis's mind all evening. _Too important_? she thought as she readied herself for bed, having sent her maids out. _I'm just Aravis. I'm not important_.

_I may not always be nearby, milady_.

What could _that_ mean? He had sounded so somber when he said it.

Aravis shuddered as she absently dug around in her satchels, looking for something that she didn't realize until her fingers touched it and her heart gave a leap. She pulled it out carefully, all thoughts of Ram and what-ifs fleeing her mind as the rough parchment crinkled between her fingers.

She didn't dare look down at it until she had curled up in bed with a candle. It was still folded up tight, the way she had left it, and there were no water marks anywhere that she could see. Carefully, she unfolded it.

The illustration of the dark-haired maiden enveloped in the arms of the fair beast-prince shone in the candlelight, and as Aravis brought it close to the flame, she realized that there were flecks of gold dust in the paint. The beast-prince's yellow hair shone red-gold in the firelight as he leaned down to kiss the dusky lips of the dark-haired maiden.

_This _was something Ragna would never have, she thought fiercely, propping the torn page up on the table next to her mattress. This kind of thing Cor would never do for her. He would never write her anything—never draw silly little pictures in the margins of his letters for her to laugh at when they were apart.

She curled up under the covers. _Damn it_. She wasn't supposed to miss him. She was Aravis Tarkheena, lady of Anvard. She didn't need anyone, much less Prince Ass.

_I don't need him to come back_.

_But_, she thought with a sigh, blowing out the candle, _I_ want _him to come back_.


	59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

_Chapter Fifty-Nine_

The next day was cold and blustery, and the women spent the day here and there, mostly lounging in Aravis's warm receiving chambers with various darning jobs and letters to be sent home to family (Aravis wrote most of them, Janey being the only other one of the bunch who knew her alphabet). Shortly before lunch, a troupe of seamstresses came in and measured Aravis from head to toe and took her opinions on fabrics, colors, and cuts.

"That sounds expensive," she demurred when the head seamstress described a flowing silk gown studded with thread-of-gold for the Christmas feast.

"His lordship urged me to dress you in my finest," the seamstress replied. "He wishes you to feel at home here, milady."

"If he insists," Aravis said as the other four women muffled giggles.

That visit was the only part of the day worth mentioning. Aravis wrote a very long letter to King Lune and enclosed Ragna's paperwork (along with a similarly extensive note regarding her feelings on the matter), ate a simple meal in her chambers, and retired early. She gazed at the torn page on her bedside stand for an inordinate amount of time, wondering if Cor was warm enough in that weather, and blew out the candle and resigned herself to a night of trampled turbans and bloody sand.

* * *

The snow had ceased by the next morning, and a gentle, cheerful sun peeked out from behind the clouds and made the winter weather somewhat comfortable. "We should go out riding today," Aravis said at breakfast. "It's beautiful out."

"What if we were attacked or lost?" Findora said flatly. "We are far from familiar territory."

"No fear," said Ram ebulliently, spearing a kipper on a short dagger and chewing it with relish, "I would be glad to accompany you."

"I bet the snow is dense enough to build with," Janey cheered. "I once built the most _extensive_ series of battlements and tunnels outside the gates of Hiddlestown. All the village children came and played on it and we had a great war, and then one of the tunnels collapsed with little Hamish in it and the guards had to come and dig him out."

"Was 'e a'right?" Ragna asked, blue eyes wide.

"Of course!"

And so they bundled up again and headed outdoors, tying their hair back with scraps of ribbon left over from the twinkling Christmas tree so it wouldn't blow about in the wind. It bit at their faces anyway, but Aravis enjoyed it; she stood knee-deep in the snow and let it buffet her flushed cheeks and tease curls out of the ribbon as it blew the cobwebs from her brain. Castle Zohra was built on a craggy hill, and the forest that surrounded them swept out indefinitely into the distance. Aravis breathed deep and imagined for a moment that she was a falcon, stretching her wings under the distant sun and swooping low over the powdered tips of those hardy evergreens.

A happy shriek brought her abruptly back to earth, and she opened her eyes to see Ragna seize a handful of snow and toss it at Findora, who took it in the elbow with good grace.

"Ah," said Ram, "let adults out on a snowy day and they become like children again."

She scarcely heard him. Far off in the distance, too faint to tell for sure, was what seemed to be a thin trail of smoke rising from the trees. It was not enough to indicate there was a forest fire—besides, it was too damp—and the wind blew it away almost as soon as Aravis got a look at it, but she sniffed deeply of the air. There was nothing on the wind other than the smell of cold, but Aravis memorized the place where she had seen the smoke and vowed to investigate more thoroughly.

"Come on, Aravis!"

_Later, though_. Hana's cry was paired with an expertly aimed snowball that hit Aravis right in the small of her back. She cried out with surprise, then scooped up a handful of her own and lobbed it right back. (Nearly a decade of winters with the twins had drilled the appropriate response into her right arm like an instinct.)

They giggled and tumbled away from the barren lawn that surrounded the castle, getting snow down their boots and inside their mittens and rubbing their faces raw as they wiped away sweat and snowflakes. Aravis threw herself into the activity, her muscles aching as they got their first real exercise in nearly a week; the pain of the cold air in her lungs cleared her head. She took a snowball to the face and laughed uproariously; she seized the low-hanging branch of a tree and scrambled up into it to drop on Ram from on high; she caught Janey unawares and shoved an icicle down the back of her gown, giggling madly. It was liberating.

"Let's play war!" Janey cried excitedly once she'd extricated what was left of the icicle. "I think Aravis needs to be put in her place."

"I claim Ram," Aravis said immediately.

"I claim Findora and Ragna, then," Janey shot back.

Aravis grabbed Hana and Ram and said, "The high ground is ours!"

Janey shrieked with mock rage as Aravis, dragging Ram and Hana behind her, sprinted further into the wood, scrambling clumsily up a steep but short little outcropping, the result of a tree that had toppled over and taken half the soil with it in its roots.

"The high ground is always essential," Ram explained to Hana as Aravis set about preparing battlements from stones, snow, and heavy fallen branches.

"Should I make projectiles?" she asked politely.

"Yes," Aravis shot over her shoulder, watching Janey and Ragna and Findora scramble about on the forest floor below, desperately trying to set up a shelter from behind which they could lay siege to the lofty fortress.

She set Ram to working on the snow battlements and ran further into the wood to collect more branches. "Hurry!" Hana cried. "They're almost finished with theirs!"

"Coming!" Aravis called back, scrambling to pick up the ones she wanted.

Suddenly, the woods rang with a hunting horn. The sound, so war-like, made Aravis jump; she dropped all the sticks. It was a good thing, too, as a moment later a jet-black horse, its muzzle dripping with foam, came trotting around the bend, bearing a tall, handsome figure on its back.

"My lord!" Aravis blurted out, dropping a low curtsy.

Khurshid, wearing an evergreen cloak of the finest wool, smiled winningly when he saw her. "My dear lady," he said, inclining his head, "what a pleasant surprise it is to see you coming to meet us."

"Oh," she stammered as the rest of the men—_Darin, Corin, oh heavens, _Cor—came around the bend. Cor called out when he recognized her, and she felt suddenly self-conscious of her damp dress and hair that was bursting to escape its ribbon. "W—we were just playing war," she said to Khurshid, stupidly dropping another curtsy. "Their Highnesses can tell you, we used to play it all the time as children—"

Quite suddenly, Cor spurred Raider into a gallop. The destrier snorted and protested being driven directly at Aravis, and at the last moment, they turned aside. Amused at the gelding's balk, Aravis laughed for a split second, and then felt a mighty tug and shrieked as Cor reached down and hauled her bodily into the saddle in front of him.

"Don't worry, Khurshid," she heard Corin call, "he tends to do this…"

Cor laughed and set her right side up as Raider thundered through the snow. "Hello, Aravis," he said, planting a firm kiss on her cheek, "you're my hostage now!"

"Ooh, I hate it when you do this without warning me," she wailed, clinging tightly to the arm that was wrapped around her middle like a vise. She was perched precariously on one side of the saddle, her legs hanging down between Cor's knee and the saddle horn with nothing to brace against. Raider was tall. "Don't you remember that time I fell and broke my wrist?"

"Father made me muck out Inga's stall for a month, yes."

He spurred Raider faster, jolting her so she gasped and sank her nails into his arm. Wheeling about, Raider whipped past Ram and Hana, who waved, and skidded down the embankment. "This is no way to mount a decent assault!" he shouted to Janey, Ragna, and Findora. "You must take the initiative and throw your heaviest artillery at them!"

"But we have a horse and rider now," Findora pleaded. "It isn't fair!"

"_Aha_!"

Corin and his pretty dun mare appeared at the top of the embankment Raider had just slid down, making an absurdly heroic picture as he held aloft a broken branch. "This army is not without a mighty defender!" he crowed.

He and the mare slipped and slid awkwardly down the slope, the mare rolling her eyes in fear, and stumbled at the very bottom as they headed toward the flimsy little pile of snow and twigs. When reach it they finally did, he tried to grab Findora but nearly toppled from the saddle, so he lowered the branch he held and said to her, "Look, would you be a brick and get on so I can prove my point?"

Findora clambered up willingly, and once she had a firm grasp of his waist, Corin wheeled the mare around and said again, as it struggled to clamber back up the embankment with two riders, "Aha! I have taken one of your number captive as well!"

Aravis was stricken helpless with giggles. Now that Raider was standing still, she felt much more secure, and she let Cor's solid chest be the brace that she leaned against as the dun mare grunted and strained to get up the snowy embankment. Cor was laughing too, and for a happy moment, it was like nothing had changed, like they were all together at Christmas and nothing had ever gone wrong.

"Give Aravis back!" Hana shouted.

"I reject your request," Cor yelled back. "I shall deposit her in a secure location until hostilities have ceased! Ragna, Janey, fire at will."

"No," Aravis cried as Cor turned Raider away from the action and spurred him deeper into the woods, "I want to fight!"

"Hostages aren't allowed to fight, those are the rules of engagement," Cor answered archly. "You wrote them yourself."

"Yes, but it made _sense_ when there were only the three of us…"

He tightened his grip on her as she tried to slide off the saddle. "Oh, no, you don't—"

Raider came to a halt, and Aravis took advantage of Cor's momentary distractedness to slip under his arm, hitting the snow with a jolt that reverberated up her spine. "Oh, yes, I do," she shrieked, running as fast as she could through the deep drifts.

Cor leapt from Raider and plowed after her, needing only a few yards to catch up and swing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Her hair, barely held back by the ribbon, hung in her face as she squealed with outraged laughter. "Them's the rules," he said, marching her back and setting her down with her back against a tree. "Now. Did you miss me?"

"No," she said, trying to suppress another stupid giggle by covering her face with her mittened hands.

He was grinning down at her, standing close so she would have no room to escape. The brief excursion to town had done him good, she thought vaguely—there was color in his freckled cheeks, and his days-old scruff and pink scars gave him a distinctly vigorous look that made her feel a bit reckless. "I brought you back something, though."

"I still didn't miss you."

"You want to know what it is?" he asked conspiratorially, ducking a little so he was looking directly into her face.

"No."

He moved a bit closer as she shrank back against the tree. "Not at all?"

"No…"

"I think you do."

Her voice was gone, so she shook her head vaguely, still pressing her mittens to her mouth.

Suddenly, he reached out and pulled the ribbon out of her hair, and the sensation of her curls falling loose about her shoulders shook some sense into her. She lunged for the ribbon. Caught unawares by her sudden movement, Cor toppled backwards and they went sprawling in the deep snow, making Raider snort and lace his ears back.

Aravis retrieved the ribbon and caught her hair back in it as Cor lay laughing in his cold bed of snow. "Every time," he said, finally extricating himself from the drift and helping her up. "Every time!"

"It's not my fault you're clumsy," she answered saucily.

"Cor!" came Janey's voice. "We need reinforcements!"

They raced back to the little snow outpost and pitched in, slinging snow until their arms ached and sweat streamed down their temples. Aravis's lungs burned from the cold air, but it felt so good to have her pulse pounding in her ears, muscles burning and skin tingling with each breath of crisp, clean air. She simultaneously wanted to scale the walls of the castle and wrestle Cor to the ground, merely for the thrill of it.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" Cor asked, and she realized she had been staring.

"I wasn't looking at you," she lied quickly.

"Liar," he said with a grin. "You l—"

He was cut off by the wet smacking sound of a snowball colliding with his temple. Aravis heard Corin whooping from atop the shallow slope, and she laughed until her belly ached.

It soon began to grow dark. The wind picked up, and the chill of dusk settled into their bones, making each movement painful and accentuating the pangs of hunger Aravis felt, her appetite peaked properly for the first time in several days. Finally, Cor and Corin took the reins of their horses and together they traipsed out of the woods and back towards the shadowy castle. Janey, Hana, and Corin chattered animatedly in front of Aravis and Cor, Corin using plenty of expressive hand gestures to tell them about a pickpocket they had encountered The windows of the fortress flickered with warm light, and Aravis gave a sigh of contentment that sent a puff of steam rising into the air. In response, Cor seized her wrist and pulled her tight against him in a one-armed embrace.

"You missed me," he said against her hair.

"Never," she retorted, wrapping her arm around his waist. "You'll notice that I recuperated quickly enough without you around."

"Be that as it may," he murmured, "_I_ missed _you_."

"Sap."

"I am bound to tell the truth, my lady."

A bundle of words crowded to the front of Aravis's mouth, but she forced them back, and they silently walked arm-in-arm through the massive gates, Raider's heavy head drooping over their shoulders.

The courtyard was a new sight to Aravis, who didn't remember much about their arrival at Zohra. Even in the dusk, it was bustling with activity, grooms busily caring for the many horses that had come through the gate, maids rushing to and fro with heavy buckets, and the general clamor that accompanies a large number of people doing noisy tasks. Raider pricked up his ears and tossed his head with a whinny, knocking Aravis aside as Cor scrambled to grab the reins he had dropped.

"Whoa, boy," Cor hissed as Raider, who had caught the scent of strangers, rolled his eyes and slammed his heavy hooves on the ground as he sidestepped nervously.

Aravis leapt up and seized Raider's halter, the reach stretching her arm and shoulder to their maximum. Raider tried to rear back, wrenching her shoulder even further.

Suddenly, there was a shout and then a tiny cry. Aravis hung on Raider's head with her full weight, her hand over his nose until he was calmed enough by her familiar scent to settle all four hooves on the ground and drop his head for a good scratch. As soon as he was steadied with a pair of grooms, Aravis turned to see what the commotion had been. Cor had a small bundle in his arms. A small dark head, swathed in his cloak, was just visible over his shoulder.

"What hap—"

She broke off when she realized that the source of the thin whimpering she was just now registering was that of a small child, and Cor was murmuring to it in a low voice.

"You must be careful near the big pony," he was saying gently. "Do you see how tall it is?"

The child nodded against Cor's neck.

"Good boy. When ponies are that tall, they can't see little Pims."

The child whimpered something in response.

"No, the pony didn't want to hurt you. The pony would feel very bad if it did. Ponies are very kind, but you must be careful to be kind to them, too."

A dirty, slatternly woman, pale face blotchy with a mixture of fear and trepidation that Aravis knew very well, came stumbling towards them, trying to punctuate her desperate run with deep curtsies. "Pim—" she gasped, nearly tripping over her skirts, "my Pim, is he—"

The child in Cor's arms wailed and held his arms out, and Cor handed him into the woman's arms. Aravis saw a bloody scrape on one of the boy's plump knees, but the woman curtsied and scurried away before either of them could say anything. "Are you all right?" she asked, driven by an unknown force to touch Cor's arm.

He smiled at her. "Of course. Pim—that child—was running about and tripped, nearly got trampled on."

"You were very sweet with him," she said grudgingly.

"Horses like Raider frighten small children. I don't want any child to be afraid of horses unnecessarily."

"You'll be one of those kings who puts their heir on a pony straight from the womb, won't you."

"Unless you wish for them to learn the way I did."

"I think you learned perfectly."

He gave her a soft yet piercing look that shook her to the core. "Thank you," he answered. "Now come along, Aravis—we'll miss dinner."

Dinner was a boisterous affair that Aravis enjoyed immensely. The trip to town had been unexpectedly enjoyable for the men, and even Cor and Khurshid were on easier terms than they had been. Aravis reflected rather amusedly that a gang of pickpockets and devious whores would have a unifying effect on any motley crew, and the menfolk were no exception.

Several hours later, they began to trickle up to bed. Cor and Aravis went together, supporting Corin between them as he staggered about and complimented Aravis on her lovely elbows.

"Did he do this while you were in town?" she groaned as they tipped the stockier twin into his bed.

Cor pulled Corin's boots off. "No, luckily. Kept his glass empty and his purse full and out of the grasp of harlots."

She turned Corin's head so he was not laying facedown on the mattress. "Did you frequent many harlots while there?"

"Hardly," Cor said with a most unrefined snort as she untucked Corin's shirt in an attempt to make him more comfortable as he snored away. "They tend to follow groups like ours, though."

"Hm."

"You don't believe me."

"No, I do."

"Ah, but you don't approve."

"Of consorting with harlots? No, I do not."

"Neither Corin nor I spent any time with any harlots or whores, Aravis, I can assure you."

"And Khurshid?"

"Ah, now he I cannot account for. But forget that for now, Aravis. I have a long letter from Father, and it has your name on it too."

"Is that what you brought me?" she asked, pulling the coverlet over Corin with a snap and an arch look.

Cor grinned. "No. Do you want it?"

"I haven't anything to give in return."

"That's why it's a _gift_."

She blushed unexpectedly. "I suppose. Come to my room?"

He nodded, and they went together to Aravis's chambers. Her maids had come in and stoked up the fire to a hot blaze, and she knew that a clean nightgown awaited her in the bedchamber, but that would have to wait. Cor stood in the doorway expectantly, so she ushered him in and got him settled on the settee while she fiddled with fixings for a nice cuppa.

When she had finished and pressed a cup of steaming tea into his hands, he moved aside on the settee to make room for her, and she drank deeply as he fiddled around in his pockets. She hadn't realized how cold she still was until the hot brew hit her stomach, the splash of whiskey she had added warming her down to her toes.

"It isn't much," Cor said as he found what he was looking for, suddenly bashful. Two points of pink popped up on his freckled cheeks as he presented her with a small tin box.

"What is it?" she asked, setting aside her tea and accepting the proffered object. She flicked the flimsy little lock with her fingernail and opened the lid, revealing a mass of yellowish cream.

"It's an ointment Arsheesh put on his hands every night," Cor answered shyly. "It healed the cracks on his fingers."

She looked up at him. "Oh, _Cor_," she said, touched. It meant quite a lot to her that he was willing to delve so deeply into those painful memories to search for something to help something so trivial as her sore hands. "You didn't have to do this."

"I think your hands are just fine the way they are," he declared, still blushing. "But I don't like to see you in pain. Physical or otherwise."

"I don't know what to say," Aravis said weakly.

"It's nothing special," he protested. "I just want you to be comfortable."

She shook her head and slowly applied the slimy ointment, concentrating it in the swollen corners of her nails and deep in the dark cracks along her palms and fingertips, giggling a bit at the mess for lack of anything better to say.

"I'm quite incapacitated now," she said, wiggling her oily fingers.

"Good. Would you like to read Father's letter first, or should I?"

"Read it out loud to me," she suggested, curling her legs under her.

Cor nodded and settled back as he pulled out the thick envelope. The wax cracked as he opened it, and Aravis leaned her head against the back of the settee and watched him frown and squint to adjust his eyes to Lune's cramped handwriting.

"'My dear children,'" he read, "'Your latest letters all urge me to direct the next batch of packages and instructions to Castle Zohra in the south, and I trust that your intentions in doing so were so that you might receive them at Christmastide, not that you could say my royal decrees got lost en route.'"

She snorted with laughter, and Cor moved closer so she could see part of the parchment he held in his hand. "'With that hope in my heart, I have sent all your presents in the same parcel so if indeed you did try to fool me, you might suffer the loss of your gifts as I suffer the loss of my pride.'"

"Cruel," she murmured.

"The very definition. 'I hope you have found good rest at Zohra, and that you are all treating each other with the kindness and respect that I have learned to hope for, but not to expect. Cor, I pray that you have found a way in which to rule without being overbearing or too deferential, so that Aravis's pride is not wounded and that Corin does not get away with too much. Corin, I hope that you have learned when to trust and when to ignore your gut, and I fervently pray that you have discovered that the latter is usually the proper course of action. Aravis, it is my desire that you, too, have learned to be noble without being haughty, and to convince others that your way is best without wounding their pride, just as you wish to keep yours unharmed.'

"There, now, that was nice, wasn't it?" Cor said, looking down at her.

She smiled and nodded sleepily. The heat from the fire was warming her to the bone, a sweet, safe feeling. What kept her from drifting into the comfortable ambiguity of a doze, though, was the fact that Cor had rested his right hand on the settee so close to her own that she could feel the extra heat radiating from his fingers. It was as distracting as a tickle.

"'First, for news from the home front. Little is occurring here. The steward and his staff are busy preparing for your impending wedding and coronation, Cor, but little can be done until you have returned and chosen your bride. Nob is determined, though, and he has already drawn up a preliminary guest list for me, which I have included with some sundry other bits of paperwork. Aravis, be a dear and look it over for me. Are there any foreign nobilities I have missed or perhaps invited mistakenly? One wishes to avoid an international war over hurt feelings.'"

Cor moved his thumb every so often, usually with the beginning of a sentence. It was endearing, as if he was trying not to trace the outlines of the letters on the fabric of the settee. That was how she had taught him to write, after all. Page after page of marching letters done in faint pencil. He had traced them all with thick black ink until he could form them on his own. Aravis remembered vividly the faint little furrow between his fair brows, ink splattered up his hands and sometimes smeared on a smooth cheek where a beard had not yet grown.

_Strange to think he is the same person_, she thought suddenly, looking up into his face, worn rugged with manhood and rough treatment. That hand, too, the fingers once blunt and chapped from salt water or stained with ink, was now big and callused. She thought about moving her fingers to span the infinitesimal distance between hers and his, but then decided not to.

"'The weather is mild so far, but I can tell in my knees that a good snow is not far off. I pray it will melt soon, clearing the way for your travels, so you may return a year and a day from when you left, and not a moment later. My creaky bones grow weary, and I begin to long for a passel of children and grandchildren to surround me in my old age. The Lion has been nothing but good to me, but I pray he grants me yet more this desire of my father's heart. I will only be happy when you, my children, are steady in your places with good spouses at your right hands and heirs aplenty—one to keep at home and several to send to stay with Grandfather.'"

Aravis could hear the small smile in Cor's voice even before she looked up and saw it. He really wasn't all that different, though, a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered. The same sweet but steady light shone in his face, and a hint of the boy lingered around his eyes and lips even as the old man had settled in on his brow. She moved her hand on the settee until it touched the side of Cor's just slightly. The contact jolted her, and Cor stumbled over a word in the letter before swiftly moving on to the next sentence.

"'There is word from the north that the provisional Narnian government is crumbling. I know not whether to believe it, and my intelligence in the northeast has been silent, leaving me blind. I tell you this, my children, out of concern that civic unrest in the north could spill southward, endangering you unnecessarily. Proceed cautiously into the west, for it is the least populated and therefore the most likely to tempt refugees both benign and otherwise.'"

Cor's fingers slipped under hers, and then in a quick motion, as though afraid she would pull away, he took hold of her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. It was such a simple touch, so gentle and unassuming, and it reached to her very bones. His voice went on, reading about various court dramas and scraps of rumors from far-flung regions, and Aravis melted into the settee and closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the fire and his hand in hers lull her into a doze. Once, she realized with a start that Cor was sitting up very slowly, and she said loudly, "I'm awake, Cor!" He laughed and went back to reading, squeezing her hand.

The second time, though—or was it the third?—the feeling of wellbeing that had surrounded Aravis threatened to swallow her completely, and she leaned against Cor's shoulder as her waking turned to dreamless sleep.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry about the delay! I won a prestigious fellowship to conduct research with an important scholar this summer, so I was totally freaking out about that the last few days. Eeee! Plus, spring break is soooon so I am absolutely swamped with work. Therefore, you have my apologies for the disjointed, slightly distracted tone I'm sure this chapter has. Daylight savings is kicking my BUTT. Goodnight, dear readers! ~SH_


	60. Chapter Sixty

_Chapter Sixty_

"My _lady_!"

Aravis woke with a snort and fell face-first onto cold flagstones. For a moment, as her ribs and lips ached from the impact, she thought she had fallen from her bed in Anvard, but her heart sank as she realized that the maidservants flitting anxiously about her were strangers, and she recalled that she was still in Castle Zohra, wrapped awkwardly up in the coverlet from her bed and lying on the hard floor between the settee and a low table.

"Are you ill, milady?" asked the head chambermaid as she helped Aravis detangle herself from the blanket and get to her feet.

"No," she said blankly, looking at the coverlet. "Which one of you covered me up last night?"

All the dirty-faced women stood silently, watching her, and then Aravis realized that it must have been Cor. The last thing she remembered was the soothing murmur of his low, husky voice as he read Lune's letter, his big thumb tracing the tender skin between her thumb and forefinger. Heat flooded her sleep-wan face, and she said, "Oh, I remember now—I fell asleep on the settee during my midnight cuppa."

The maids took this pronouncement at face value and ushered her back into the bedchamber to get her tidied up for the day. One woman shook the coverlet back over her bed while others brushed out her snarled hair and washed her face, neck, underarms, hands, and feet in preparation for her robing.

Midway through the putting on of her shift, though, a maid allowed two more women into the room. Aravis recognized one as the head seamstress from the other day.

"Milady," the thin-lipped woman said, curtsying low.

Aravis inclined her head. "Have you finished with my gowns?"

"Nearly, milady. If it please you, we might proceed with the final fittings."

_Might as well._ She nodded.

The next hour was filled by repetitious movement: put dress on, get stuck by pins, hold arms out, turn, take dress off, repeat. Aravis's haunches and stomach burned from the scores of pinpricks she had received through careless motion, but the seamstress and her assistant worked as quickly and easily as the northern glaciers moved through the mountains. Finally, the last gown was pulled off over her head, grazing her ear with a dull pin in the process, and the seamstresses retreated, leaving her hot and covered in tiny bleeding holes which made her maids shake their heads and cluck and pull the thin, bloodstained shift over her head again.

"Let me eat first," Aravis said, holding out a hand as they went at her with another armful of fabric. "I'm liable to faint, otherwise."

They wrapped her in a silk robe—much more ladylike than the flannel one she had been given upon their arrival—and set her up on her bed with a tray of porridge, toast, and tea, which she ate sitting on her bed with her legs curled up under her and one hand full of the correspondence she had already started to reply to.

Suddenly, the door opened, and her maids flew into a tizzy that was not unlike that of chickens when a fox steals into the coop. Aravis looked up from her letter and set her teacup down, laughing at the look on Cor's face as one woman tried to shove him bodily from the room and another struggled vainly with the curtains around Aravis's bed.

"It's all right," Aravis said loudly, "let him be! Cor, you should knock next time, if only to spare these good women some anxiety."

"I didn't think you'd be dressing still," he said, still holding the door with both hands in case the maids charged again. Instead, they retreated begrudgingly, though clearly quite upset at the fact that a man had intruded upon the sacred female act of the morning toilet, and his eyes finally flicked to Aravis's side of the room.

"I had a final fitting for new gowns already," she answered, setting her tray aside. "Took a bit longer than I would have preferred, of course, but here we are." She paused. His fair face had an odd look to it, his lips parted slightly and blue eyes big. "Are you all right?"

"What?" he said, blinking. "Oh—yes—fine."

"Why don't you come and sit down, then?"

He shook his head mutely.

"Oh, come, now, Cor, why not?"

"I didn't—I'm—it's—er—nothing important—besides, you have to get dressed—"

"I'm in no hurry."

"No, Aravis, I mean _you should get dressed_."

His voice had taken a very slight hoarseness, and Aravis was surprised until finally a maid reached over and adjusted her robe, which had slipped down off her shoulder and exposed a wide swath of dusky skin from her throat to her arm, showing even part of her right breast, her smooth skin glowing in the light from the fire near the bed.

She drew the robe tighter about her, face warm but not as warm as it should have been. "Oh, I don't care about that," she said smoothly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's just skin."

Cor was red to the tips of his ears, bless him. "I'll come back when you're dressed," he said, and left abruptly.

Aravis let out an unexpected laugh as soon as the door closed and tried to muffle the sound with her hands as her maids, looking mortified, slowly ground back into action. One stepped near the door as if to stand guard, as there was no lock, while the others readied Aravis's outfit for the day.

She was unable to stop her weak giggling as she got to her feet. Her veins coursed with a dizzying heat, a sort of buzzing awareness that flooded her entire body and made her suddenly aware of all its secrets and hidden places—it was a heady sensation, and she had to grip the back of a chair and shake her head for a moment to clear it of Cor's wide eyes and parted lips.

Her maids were giving her disapproving looks, though, and Aravis straightened. "Why am I being dressed so?" she asked as the head chambermaid came towards her with another worn but perfectly decent velvet gown. "Certainly there cannot be a feast this early in the day—nor so soon—"

"His lordship the viscount's son wishes milady to join him in his study upon milady's earliest convenience," said the maid, shoving the dress down over Aravis's arms and head.

"Oh he does, does he," she retorted.

"Yes, milady."

They laced her up so tightly in the grey velvet that she could hardly breathe, but for once she said nothing—a small voice in the back of her head urged patience and caution as she stood before the long mirror, eyeing her figure with disapproval. Khurshid was not a man she could afford to appear before in less than her finest, she thought with a sigh, whether regarding her garb or her own appearance. Out loud, she said, "Tie my stays tighter, then re-lace the dress."

The maids obeyed more happily than Aravis would have liked, slipping the dress off just enough that they could access her worn and dirty stays. The biggest of them came forward and seized the laces with thick fingers, wrenching them back so tightly Aravis gasped and coughed.

"Tighter," she snapped, clinging to her chair with white knuckles.

The maid hauled back until Aravis thought she would snap in two, then swiftly knotted the laces and condemned her to hours of torture.

"Yes," she breathed, blinking back tears, "that will do."

The other maids slipped the dress back over her and laced it carefully over an extra petticoat to hide the wrinkles caused by the stays' failing fabric. The effect was remarkable, Aravis thought vaguely as she turned before the mirror; her saddle-hardened and porridge-thickened waist now looked impossibly small under the shimmering dove-colored gown, lending her vigorous form a notably delicate appearance that she knew Khurshid could not help but notice.

_It's like suiting up for battle_, she thought nonsensically to herself as the maids helped her down into the chair to dress her hair. _Only, I know next to nothing about my opponent_.

It really was more of a reconnaissance maneuver, though. The stays and gown were her armor, the fragrant oils the maids were combing through her hair a helm, measures of precaution Aravis felt safer with than without. Khurshid was handsome, eloquent, mature and well-comported, but the only man Aravis had _ever _met who possessed those characteristics without any sort of ulterior motive was Cor. Every other man with those ideal qualities, to the one, had wanted something of hers in return—favors, money, gifts, her hand in marriage, or simply a warmed bed…

She wondered what Khurshid wanted.

Her maids painted her face painstakingly, sensing her willingness to endure their ministrations and therefore redoubling their efforts. When they were finished, her dusky skin glowed with youth and good health, tiny gems glittering in the holes that had been punched in the lobes of her ears long before she could walk. The result was an artificial beauty that attracted a glance but did not capture it; that pleased the eye but did not entrance it.

"This will do," she said, standing stiffly.

A maid bent and put castle slippers on her feet, the dark blue silk peeking out from the glittering hem of her gown with a cheekiness that Aravis appreciated. "Yes," she said again. "You are dismissed."

The women scattered immediately, taking their combs and tubs with them, and Aravis stood for a moment in the silence of the room and tried to catch her breath, a futile endeavor. The Aravis that faced her in the mirror was thin and tall, belying the color of her skin, and wore a false blush that made her look slightly embarrassed about something she had done.

She sighed.

"For the good of Archenland," she said, but her voice sounded thin and unconvincing even to her own ears.

The walk to Khurshid's study was long and tedious. When she saw the heavy oaken door, Aravis wanted suddenly—desperately—to confer with Cor before stepping over the threshold, but all rationality told her that, even while he wouldn't understand what she was trying to do, he would most certainly try to talk her out of it and end up being no help at all. She leaned on the handle and let herself in.

The room was empty. The click of the door slipping back into place echoed against the high ceilings, and Aravis wandered in, gazing up at the bookcases that stretched up to the very top. A wealth of knowledge was stored behind those glass doors, the wisdom of centuries and kingdoms gone by. Alas, judging by the thick layer of dust on the handles of each door, Khurshid did not avail himself of it very often.

Aravis walked to the expansive mahogany desk and leaned against it, rifling absently through the papers accumulated thereon. Bills, mundane correspondence, and a long page of stable inventories were all that she found, none of which were worth noting. A few coins here to a local farm for providing supplemental grain for cattle, a few there for a new loom, a handful of gilds from an 'F.B.' for 'marriage services.' Carefully, she began to pull open drawers. None were locked and all slid open easily, allowing her full access to their contents—merely more letters, contracts, lists of expenses, and other paperwork common to a household of this size.

Finally, she pulled open the last drawer, the one directly in the middle of the desk. This drawer, too, was unlocked, and she therefore expected nothing out of the ordinary. Indeed, if she hadn't glanced over a few of the balance sheets on the desktop, she might never have paid any attention to the piece of parchment signed 'F.B.'

More out of bored curiosity than anything else, Aravis pulled the letter out and read it.

_'Most esteemed lord Khurshid son of Sidrat, Viscount_,

_'Per our previous conversation, you may find enclosed with this missive a contract outlining the details of our agreement, as well as the first installment of your agreed-upon wage. At your leisure, peruse said contract and return to me at your earliest convenience. Upon my receipt of the contract, you will receive the second installment of your wage. At the completion of the deed, and my receipt of both the legal document and proof of consummation, you will receive the final installment. _

_'I trust your utmost discretion regarding this matter. It must seem a natural and advantageous match, and I require nothing of you further than the courtship and consummation._

_'I remain your appreciative acquaintance,_

_'F.B.'_

Aravis stared at the initials and their accompanying seal for a few minutes, trying her hardest to recognize the handwriting or the crest. Such a strange request—_courtship and consummation_—coupled with the intentional vagaries made her instantly suspicious, but the penmanship did not match that of any of the lords and ladies across the known world with whom she was familiar (and there were quite a few).

She set the letter aside and dug around in the drawer for a few more moments, not needing much time as the contract in question was almost atop the pile of papers. Leaning against the desk, she scanned it carefully.

_'I the undersigned do hereby oblige myself to carry out the following tasks:_

_'I agree to woo and court the Lady Aravis Tarkheena of Calavar._

_'I agree to wed aforementioned lady and consummate the marriage immediately._

_'I agree to provide physical proof of aforementioned wedding and consummation (i.e., marriage contract, bedlinens, etc.)._

_'I agree to complete these tasks for the sum total of 2,000 gilds, payable in three lump sums immediately upon receipt of proof. I also understand that my terms of service will be terminated immediately following receipt of final payment, and that I am free to do as I wish upon said date._

_'Signed,_

_'__**Khurshid V.**_'

It was a good thing Aravis was leaning against the desk, else she might have fallen. Fear rippled through her body like a crackling fire. _F.B._ _A gryphon_. _Finn Bogton. Who else? _

_That fucking fool_.

What she had thought was fear she was now realizing was something even more dreadful: rage. It was building up inside her gut slowly, filling her head and limbs with a strange sense of weightlessness.

She now knew that she had completely missed the point. Khurshid was worth no more than a passing glance, a mere second of her time—he was only a puppet, a stupid toy being tugged and pulled by hands behind a curtain, the mastermind of the whole movement, the original Finni. They were using him for one purpose: to get her out of their way.

_Ah, yes, that is what they want, isn't it,_ she thought coldly, reveling in the wrath that was still building steadily inside her. _I am the highborn bitch—the only one who really has Cor's interests at heart. As long as I am unmarried, I am a threat, for I will stay by his side and watch for them always, like I did with Gyneth. I am _dangerous. _But only until I am married._

She looked down at the contract. _'I am free to do as I wish upon said date._'

It did not take a scholar to divine what Finn had meant by those words. Aravis knew Calormene men and what they did to unwanted wives, what her own father had done to the string of women who followed her mother. Either Khurshid would take a mistress, meaning she would exist in a sort of self-imposed ignorant limbo for an acceptable period of time and then take a dagger to her breast in a final display of utter feminine despair, or he would do it for her and spare her the agony of self-destruction.

That did not frighten her. _No. I have gazed down the path of death before. And so young I was then, with soft, lotioned hands and a borrowed blade. It would be so easy now. I could make it so quick._

_No, no, no_, she thought, retreating within herself and feeling the brilliant flames of her rage with glee. _I am expendable._

_But not Cor._

No. He was not. He never would be.

The Finnii were getting clever. More desperate, but clever. Aravis stuck out everywhere they went—she was well aware of that. Her distinctive features and coloring marked her as a foreigner, and her bearing branded her a noblewoman, two characteristics that would scream her name anywhere she went in Archenland or Narnia. By following her, the Finnii could find Cor.

By marrying her off to their lackey Khurshid, then, the Finnii were jeopardizing their failsafe locator, but they were also neutralizing the threat she posed to them. By getting rid of her, they left Cor—good-hearted, well-meaning Cor—more vulnerable to attack, to infiltration by women like Gyneth.

True fear gripped her throat at that thought. Cor without her _might_ blunder into any town and go to sleep in a Finnii-infested inn, never to wake again. Cor with her, however, _would_ attract dozens of murderous scarlet-veiled swordsmen who would cut him and the rest of them to ribbons. Without her, and with a good heaping of luck, the company could slip back to Anvard unmolested. With her, they wouldn't make it alive through the next town.

Aravis had a sudden vision of Cor, streaked with gore and holding his own viscera in a dripping hand, drawing his last ragged breaths alone in a snowy forest.

"_No_," she said, and slammed the letter and contract back into the drawer. _I am nothing to anyone. Cor is everything to everyone. He is safest without me, protected by Ram and Darrin and the girls_.

The door opened and Khurshid oozed in. "My lady tarkheena," he said with some surprise. "I did not expect you so soon."

Aravis took her sizzling rage, a wrath that burned so brightly that she would have had no qualms about slamming a nearby paperweight between his eyes until blood and brain coated the floor, and turned it into power. _Cor_.

She turned her head with her coyest smile, still leaning against the desk so her back faced him. "Ah, lord viscount," she said smoothly. "I wondered."

He crossed the long room towards her, his strides long and measured. "I see you have been at my desk."

"Merely wondering what it feels like," she answered. "Such smooth, strong mahogany."

Khurshid's handsome mouth quirked up on one side, and Aravis knew she had won. "And why should such a sweet maid as yourself wish to experience a man's desk, my lady?"

She ran her perfumed fingertips across the surface. "A maid I might be, my lord, but I must prepare myself for wifely duties. I must be able to assist my husband in my married years."

"And does my desk suit?"

"Oh, it suits _very_ well."

"Tell me, my lady, what else does a maid use to _practice_ her wifely duties?"

"Intimate knowledge of the Pillow Book," she answered promptly, turning her head in feigned interest so her long, smooth neck was arched just so.

Khurshid laughed low. "The Pillow Book? I have heard…so much about the Pillow Book."

_Typical_. What was traditionally a book of marriage tips passed from mother to daughter had, in recent centuries, morphed into a manual of intimate acts that all high-born Calormene girls were introduced to at a young age—it made them better marriage candidates. Aravis remembered studying it with her nursemaid at the age of nine. No wonder Khurshid was keen on marrying a Calormene maid: unlike Archenlanders, they came trained to perform expertly in the bedchamber.

She looked at him through her eyelashes. "You are mischievous, my lord. Men aren't to know of the Pillow Book."

"My knowledge is limited. But yours is…"

"Extensive."

Khurshid smiled. "Hmm. Somehow, I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you." He reached out and brushed a loose curl off Aravis's bared shoulder, his fingers brushing her collarbone. Her skin crawled. _Cor_.

"I had hoped you would notice," she breathed.

"You were hardly subtle, Aravis tarkheena."

"As I hoped you would be as well, Khurshid lord viscount."

As before, it was a good thing she had continued to lean against the desk, for now it gave her something to grip tightly as Khurshid put his hand around her waist, his hot breath buffeting her face. "But surely this can't be all you called me here for," she said silkily yet pointedly.

"Ah, of course not. Your beauty has made me forget myself."

He still did not retreat, nor even pull his hand away. _Cor_. "Is it a marriage proposal?" she asked flirtatiously, looking coyly at him through her lashes. "I have not forgotten the way of our fathers, after all."

Khurshid laughed and drew back. "No, my dear lady, but you do tempt me to."

_So the time will come later._ "What is it, then?"

"A gift," Khurshid answered.

"How perfectly exciting!"

Khurshid went behind his desk and picked a large vial full of viscous pale liquid off the table that rested under the windows that arched up behind his chair. "A bit belated."

She accepted the crystal glass and took the stopper out; a whiff of acrid air hit her nose, and she resisted a grimace just barely. "My—I have never encountered a wine such as this."

He laughed briefly. "No, my dearest lady, it is not to drink. Your maids I'm sure will coach you properly, but it is a special compound designed to melt the horns right off one's hands. I mentioned it to you at supper, you remember."

"Oh—of…course…"

"Your maids will brush it on at night and apply gloves, and in a week, my chemist assures me your hands will look as soft as any princess's."

The potion terrified her, but she smiled. _Cor!_ "You are but living up to your reputation, milord."

"Really? What do they say about me?"

_Nothing, for that is what you are—a cruel halfwit, and not a jot more_. "That you are courteous and an excellent host."

"Hm," he said with a smile, coming near her again. "I would hope you think somewhat better of me."

"I prefer to dwell on other pleasing aspects of your person," she answered, slipping away and tiptoeing backwards toward the door with all the teasing wantonness of a milkmaid.

"You _are_ brazen, aren't you," he said.

"Some tell me that. But no man has ever told me he disliked it. Do you?"

"Never."

_Fool_. "I had hoped not. _Now—_I must ready myself for supper, my lord."

"Ah, yes," Khurshid said, "I noticed that your gown was somewhat substandard. You have my permission to take your leave."

If Aravis hadn't already been forcing the smile she wore on her face, she would have had to then. The vial in her hands begged to be smashed on the flagstones. Indeed, as she walked dazedly back to her chambers, she had to hold it consciously, for every time she let her guard down, she found herself readying to hurl it away from her. That would not do. She had a duty to perform now. Every little thing she could do to hold Khurshid's attention, to keep him panting after her, would guarantee Cor's safety that much longer.

She hit the vial under her bed and loosened her stays as much as she could without ruining the appeal of the dress—what if Khurshid should visit her during the afternoon?—and sat on the cushioned seat beneath the biggest window in her receiving room with a bundle of sewing in her lap. It had begun to snow again, she noted, gazing out through the foggy glass as she unraveled the fabric that would soon be Corin's boxing wraps.

"At least I won't have to ride out in it," she said aloud. Hearing it made the concept all the more real—if all went according to plan, she would never again leave Zohra for any extended amount of time. She would stay here, wed Khurshid, and then wait for the inevitable. Indeed, she thought wryly, in a way she was getting the better end of the deal—marriage to a handsome man who would couch her in luxury and then politely help her out of the way when the novelty had worn off. If that was the price she had to pay for Cor to leave here safe for the time being, then so be it.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

Aravis jumped and realized she had finished Corin's present a while ago and had been staring out the window with her chin in her hand. "They're not worth a copper, I'm afraid," she said sheepishly as Cor ambled over, looking scrubbed and well rested in a plain white tunic. She was glad she had chosen snow-white for his _nimruzan_—the color set off his red-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes like none other.

"Something's bothering you," he said, sitting next to her. "I can tell."

"No. I'm just…still a bit tired."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." The lie came painfully, threatening to bring a few tears with it, but she held them back and smiled.

Cor did not smile back. "Aravis."

Her own smile slid off her face so quickly it was gone before she realized it. "I can't tell you, Cor," she said after a period of silence had passed. "Please don't try to make me. But it'll be all right, I promise. Everything will be."

He gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded quietly. "I trust you."

_Damn it_.

But as he reached over and put his arms around her, Aravis breathed deeply of his familiar smell and felt the heat of his neck against her forehead and heard the pounding of his heart under her palm, she realized that it was all worth it—and it _really was_.

* * *

_A/N: I have noticed from reviews, emails, conversations on Facebook, and private messages that there seems to be a bit of confusion regarding who exactly is writing this story. Indeed, Schmo and Sushi used to be a joint effort by Schmo (Kat) and Sushi (me), but that was ages ago, and due to life changes and the natural ebb and flow of relationships, Schmo and I no longer write together or even correspond. That's right, all your favorite Chronicles of Narnia Schmo and Sushi fics were written solely by me, Sushi! So y'all don't need to ask anymore which author works on which character, and who is planning on writing The Big Moment, etc., because it is all the same person! :) You can check our Facebook page or our FFN profile for more information. ~SH_


	61. Chapter Sixty-One

_Chapter Sixty-One_

Dinner was a long and torturous affair. Aravis's maids tied her up in the red silk gown she had seen earlier, as it was nigh on Christmas Eve, but the fabric stuck to her clammy skin and tried to suffocate her; the creams and oils they had reapplied to her face in order to make it glow in the candlelight made her feel sticky and congested. But she smiled—oh, how she smiled. In fact, she knew she glittered spectacularly, like a diamond: glittering and beautiful but old. Old and worn out.

There was only one person in that entire massive hall with which she knew she could entrust her secret. All the others, even those she knew would keep the information safe, couldn't know. No—the only way that Cor would be safe was if no one knew she knew.

But she still needed help.

"I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Ram," she said to the big ginger man as he offered her his arm to ascend the staircase to bed.

"But of course, Lady Aravis. I am at your command."

"It is a matter of some delicacy."

"Indeed?"

The candlelight glimmered off of the polished baubles that hung from the massive tree in the hall, and Aravis saw that, bathed in their reddish light, there stood by each doorway one of Khurshid's hulking guards. Cor, too, with Ragna hanging off his arm, was watching her expectantly from the top of the staircase. She immediately put a finger to her lips and giggled, "Yes, Ram! It's regarding _someone's Christmas present_."

"Ah!" Ram said immediately. "Delicate indeed! Let us take a turn in the gardens, shall we? My mother always recommended a light walk after a heavy meal."

"Oh, thank you, Ram," she gushed as he escorted her lazily yet pointedly through one of the doorways. The dark guardsman watched them out of the corner of his narrow eye. "I was _so_ anxious for help, and I know you won't spoil the surprise too early!"

The cold wind bit at their exposed skin, and Aravis clung closer to Ram's arm as he marched purposefully into the shadows of the snowy garden. They hurried in silence for a long while, Zohra soon turning into nothing but a shadow blocking the stars.

"Speak quickly," Ram hissed suddenly, stopping and pulling her close to the side of a high, dead hedge. "We may have been followed."

Aravis told him hastily about the letter and contract she had discovered. "It was from Finn Bogton. I would know that scarlet gryphon anywhere."

"I need to see these documents," Ram said sharply.

"They're in the top drawer of Khurshid—the viscount's son's desk."

Ram nodded. "If what you say is true—if the letters really are from the Finnii…you already know what you have to do, don't you, Lady Aravis?"

She nodded, mouth thin. "It's the only way. If I leave, if I turn him down, they'll know we know. Cor won't be safe anymore, not at all."

"Yes. But are you ready to make that sacrifice?"

"It's not a sacrifice. Not really. I want Cor alive more than anyone—anything—else. But Ram—"

"Yes, my lady."

"I need help."

"Anything."

She grabbed his arms, desperate to impress her point upon him. "Cor cannot know. Do you understand me, Ram? _He must—not—know_. You must make him believe this is entirely my idea, that I choose it happily. Otherwise, he'll never let me do it, never stop trying to claw his way back. You _must_ do this for me, Ram."

"No, he must never know," Ram said quietly. "I truly believe that he would kill me if he knew you were in danger and I stood in his way."

"And then he would be doomed," she answered. "I don't know who you are, Ram, but—I know you stand between us and something terrible."

Ram smiled very slightly. "I am only looking out for the safety of you all."

"Yes. But now you must forget about me. Think only of Cor. Find that letter and contract and make sure it is what I think it is."

"Of course."

"And then you _must_ protect Cor. You are the only one I trust. _Protect him, _Ram."

Ram nodded solemnly. "With my dying breath."

Warmth filled Aravis's body and prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she passed a hand over her face as she nodded with relief. "Yes. Good. Thank you."

"Come," he said gently, taking her arm again, "let's go back inside and warm up. You need a good night's sleep."

"I wonder if I can close my eyes after all this," she answered with a weak attempt at levity. "Besides, I still have gifts to finish. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

"Enjoy yourself, my lady," he said seriously. "Stay with His Highness. Read. Rest. Be a young girl while you still can."

"I haven't been a young girl in a long time, Ram," she answered with a wan smile. "But I appreciate your concern."

Ram did not reply, and they went quietly back into the castle.

* * *

Aravis slept no better than she had expected. It seemed that she spent most of the night staring at the patterns of shadows the windowpanes made on the walls of her room and rubbing Cor's ointment into her aching fingers, but when she woke in the morning with her hair plastered to her forehead and limbs heavy with grogginess, she decided that sharing the burden of her secret with Ram had been a very good decision anyway. He had confirmed her decision to stay when the time came without batting a lash, bolstering her own resolve in the process. What was more, he had promised to take her place as Cor's unofficial guardian, and it was just a fact that he would make a much better one than she, as unobservant and biased as she was.

She spent the morning alone in silence; her maids did not come to dress her, nor did anyone knock on her door, so she sat on her bed with her legs crossed and put the finishing touches on the last of the Christmas gifts. Cor's _nimruzan_ took the longest, as she hadn't even started on the hems of the sleeves yet. The gold and silver thread flew through her fingers as she formed the outlines of the constellations she knew by heart, had memorized as a child, had studied for years. Beomia the Warrioress to give him courage, the Northern Dragon to protect him, Gadarn's Great Ox to give him strength, Vedrfolnir the One-Eyed Hawk to grant him speed, and Dain, the nimble deer that danced amidst the branches of the World Tree to give him joy.

Once, she paused in the midst of outlining the World Tree's roots and wondered if she should give it to him. In a month, it could become a rag of bad thoughts, a piece of cloth with nothing but negative associations and painful memories. _It's not your place to make that choice, though, _a small voice whispered in the back of her head, and she turned back to the job with renewed vigor.

Near noon, her maids brought her a light lunch. "This is it?" she asked, looking sadly at the sparse fixings of smoked boar and bread.

"The Christmas feast is tonight," the head chambermaid answered uneasily. "His lordship thought you should eat lightly today so as to…more thoroughly enjoy the food tonight."

"So as to better fit in my gown, you mean," Aravis replied shortly. "Yes. You are all dismissed."

They scurried away, and Aravis ate with gusto the little food they had provided. At least they had given her a full pot of tea, and she drank nearly the whole thing over the course of the next few hours, chilling it with snow once it had stopped steaming. As she sipped the sweet drink, she compiled all the gifts she had gathered for the Archenlanders in the castle and wrapped and sorted them into piles: two packages for the twins (they always opened their gifts to each other first thing Christmas morning, a tradition that had begun in Aravis and Cor's first winter in Archenland with Corin's round, freckled face hovering above theirs while it was still dark), a mass of small bundles for the menfolk, and the small pile for the women. Aravis felt a bit guilty for a minute that she hadn't gotten anything for Elnaz, but then she remembered that, being Calormene and a ward of Khurshid's, she almost certainly did not celebrate the barbarian festival of Yuletide. It had been a stretch, even, for Khurshid to deign to host their Christmas feast.

The maids returned not long before it started to grow dark outside. They brought with them hulking manservants who bore a wooden tub and buckets of steaming water, and Aravis knew she was to be prepared for another stellar performance. She really didn't mind, though—she needed all the help she could get.

She soaked in the tub for the better part of an hour, her dry skin absorbing all sorts of scented miracle potions that the maids poured into the water and massaged into her. One woman cleaned, filed, and polished her fingernails while another removed the stubborn dark hair that had grown back on her face and body over the last week. The process hurt, but it was a cleansing pain, one that allowed Aravis to focus on the task at hand: wooing Khurshid so he would report to the Finnii that the plan was a go and that no one suspected a thing.

Her hair they spent another hour on, beginning on it even as it was still wet from the bath. The hairdresser's fingers were long and firm, and they captured Aravis's tangled locks up into a high braided pile, leaving long loops of plait to hang loose in the back like so much rope. Into the braids they placed small gems from a mahogany box, slipping them here and there so they glittered richly like stars from amidst the darkness of her tresses.

"Where did these jewels come from?" Aravis asked as one maid put earrings of silver and diamonds in her ears. "I do not recognize them."

"Courtesy of his lordship," she answered.

_A good sign_. "How kind of him."

After the first application of paint went on her face, Aravis rose to be dressed in the gown that the head seamstress, looking pale and wan, had brought by while she was still in the bath. The maids slipped fresh shifts carefully over her head, the snow-white cotton feeling heavenly smooth against her polished skin.

"New stays, too?" she said with surprise as they helped her into the article. "Heavens, this is too much."

"We were instructed to provide you with nothing less than the finest, my lady," said the head chambermaid, hauling on the laces so hard Aravis coughed.

As much as she disliked wearing stays, Aravis thought breathlessly, the new one was much more comfortable, and its strong seams and reinforced grommets gave her a neater figure than her old sweat-stained one had. Over this they helped her into one more shift, then approached with a bundle of dark blue silk that shimmered in the candlelight.

"Oh," she said stupidly. "Is that it?"

"Yes, my lady."

They slipped it very carefully over her head, then turned her away from the mirror as they laced her up in it and made various adjustments to the hems and bodice. Another maid hurried over with the cosmetic jars and finished painting her face, kohling her eyes and applying a cool liquid to her lips.

"I must look my absolute best," she said somewhat snappishly to the head maid, lifting her chin as soon as the woman stepped back. "Absolutely no imperfections anywhere."

"Fix her ladyship's hair," the head maid barked, and two women scrambled to adjust something the robing had knocked loose and slipped a thin gold circlet over her brow, a nuisance Aravis had thought she had left behind at Anvard.

"Let me see," Aravis commanded. "The circlet is too much, methinks."

They let her turn towards the streaky mirror. For a long, surreal minute, Aravis stared into the candlelit glass, trying to recognize the slim figure she saw therein. The maids really had done their best. She looked nearly flawless, or as flawless as Aravis could; the dark blue dress, pure silk, flowed down her body like water, the hems and seams worked in beautiful thread-of-gold so every movement caught the candlelight. The gems in her dark hair glittered, and even the circlet wasn't too much—in fact, it was perfect, highlighting her noble brow like nothing she had ever worn at Anvard.

She turned a little. The dress was cut low, baring the smooth skin of her bosom and shoulders, and Aravis thought for the first time that the golden, dusky tone of her skin was more beautiful than the translucent paleness of her Archenlandian peers. She shimmered and moved and looked like a queen.

"Yes," she said at last, "this will do."

A maid helped her into a pair of matching palace slippers, and she glided from the room on the tiny steps she had learned long ago made her seem to float. The silk skirt whispered on the flagstones behind her. She could hear the clamor from the hall even from her wing of the castle; Lune had set the precedent for all Archenlandian lords to provide a sumptuous meal for all their servants on Christmas Eve, a chance for the commonfolk to catch glimpses of the nobles in all their finery. There was always music and plenty of eggnog at these affairs to warm the bellies of those who huddled together against the cold weather.

Cor and Corin's voices rose above the noise as she neared the top of the staircase that swooped down into the entrance hall. They were arguing about something, which gave her pause, but she soon heard the word "itchy" and knew it was nothing important. Indeed, she saw as she came to the top of the stairs and looked down, they were leaning against the wall looking sharp in matching red velvet tunics and deerskin breeches. Someone had taken a comb to their heads and a razor to their cheeks, for both were clean-shaven and wore their hair brushed back in that dashing court manner.

_Like a pair of pennies_, Aravis thought fondly as she descended the staircase, going warm in the pit of her stomach.

"We agreed that it was _my_ turn to wear the red," Corin was saying peevishly. "You always wear the red at Christmas!"

"I do not," Cor blustered. "Last year I wore that green one, remember? When you dropped a kipper down my back?"

"I do remember that, yes—you leapt about like a cutling in a frying pan—but that's not the point, you wore the _red_ one, I distinctly recall it!"

Aravis paused at the landing to steady herself on the railing, and the shift in movement caught Cor's eye. He looked up at her. For a strange, stirring moment, he looked vaguely confused, as if she was a familiar-looking stranger, and then she saw the recognition dawn on his face. It was almost comical, but then it wasn't—he was gazing at her, really _seeing_ her, it seemed, and she stood for a moment where she had stopped and let him look.

He remained frozen in place as she descended the rest of the stairs, holding her chin high and shoulders back as she concentrated very hard on skimming her fingers elegantly along the railing. She was a lady tonight, a noblewoman to the bone, and a prince was watching her.

"Well, don't you scrub up nice," said Corin, calling her attention back to reality, and she dipped a curtsy as he came up to her.

"You look rather nice yourself," she responded, not referring to him.

Corin bent in a bow that nearly swept the stone floor and kissed the back of her hand with a grin. "_M'lady_," he said in an exaggerated court accent.

"Cor," she burst out, "are you going to do something besides stand there, or shall I just go in?"

The words slipped out without her express consent, but they seemed to prod Cor into action. His eyes flashed at her. Suddenly, he was striding forward, his polished boots clicking on the floor, and Corin stepped quickly out of his way as he stopped just before the tips of Aravis's slippers, took her hand in both of his, and kissed her callused palm so gently she scarcely felt it.

She stared at him. He looked right back, faint lines between his brows and around his narrowed mouth.

_Ram swore not to tell him_, she thought wildly.

Cor was still looking directly into her face, his eyes piercing right through her.

"What is it?" she managed to breathe.

"Anyone but him," he answered firmly.

She couldn't keep a frown from appearing on her face. _Anyone but him_. What could he possibly mean? She couldn't help the fact that it was Khurshid who was threatening—

"_Oh_," she said.

The only times Cor had ever seen the two of them together, she had flirted blatantly—brazenly—with Khurshid, and now here she was, dressed in her finest for one of his parties…

"I…seem to have missed something," said Corin uneasily, glancing back and forth between them.

Cor released her hand. "No, it's nothing," he said to Corin.

"Yes," Corin said slowly, eyes narrowed, "well, I'm going in to supper. Whenever you two feel like using modes of communication other than meaningful looks, you're welcome to join me."

"We're coming now," Aravis said quickly.

It was a well-choreographed dance from thereon out—Cor extended his arm to her, she took it daintily, and Corin led them to the great oak doors that marked the entrance to the hall. Two guards swung them open, and a footman clanked a heavy iron staff and announced to the crowded chamber, "His Royal Highness Cor, crown prince of Archenland! His Royal Highness Corin, prince of Archenland! Her ladyship Aravis tarkheena, lady of Anvard!"

The clamor in the hall, which had died down as its occupants looked around to see the new arrivals, rose steeply as they realized that their future king and his familiars had joined them. Aravis felt hundreds of eyes upon her and the hand that tremblingly clasped Cor's firm upper arm.

"Ah, our most honored guests," came Khurshid's silky voice. He rose to meet them as they approached the high table, which was laden with all sorts of delicious things that made Aravis's mouth water. "Your Royal Highnesses."

"My lord," Cor said coolly, receiving Khurshid's bow with a slight nod. "Your household has outdone themselves tonight."

"At my express command, my liege," Khurshid answered with another bow. "And I see that my tailors and seamstresses followed their orders to the letter—her ladyship looks most stunningly beautiful tonight, does she not?"

"Indeed," said Cor, and Aravis desperately wanted a glance at his face as she said it, but social mores dictated that she release his arm and execute a curtsy.

"You are most gracious," she said to Khurshid, extending her hand.

Khurshid took it, his fingers scraping the horns on her palm, and frowned before leaning down to kiss it. "So I have been told."

Cor's hand lingered on her arm as if he was prepared to pull her back the moment Khurshid sprouted a forked tongue and fangs. The heat of his fingers distracted her immensely—she could feel the pressure of each individual fingertip—but she pushed on and gave Khurshid a winning smile. "I find it so terribly hard to believe you are yet a bachelor, my lord."

Both Cor and Corin gave rude snorts that they quickly turned into coughs, but Khurshid either didn't hear or didn't understand, for he only smiled back, saying, "Ah, just biding my time, my lady. Women as beautiful and witty as you are rare.

"But come, come!" he burst out a moment later. "I keep you from your meal." He pulled out a seat next to his, but before she could move to take it, Corin swept in and sat down with a boisterous "why thank you, good fellow!"

Aravis breathed a sigh of relief and let Cor take the next seat, sliding in between him and Dar, who whooped when he saw her and poured her a cup of rich, creamy eggnog. She took it gratefully and drank it all, letting the heat of the spirit fill her stomach and clear her head. "Thank you, Dar."

"Only the best for the loveliest lady this side of the Eastern Sea," he said cheerily. "What else can I procure for you?"

She felt a bit giddy at having been liberated from Khurshid's appraising gaze for the time being. "Something of everything!"

Dar chortled and made a teasing little joke about popping out of her stays but then happily loaded down a trencher for her and then for Cor. "Christmas is a time for merrymaking, not waist-watching, after all!"

"Cheers, Dar," Cor said around a mouthful of meat pie.

Musicians in the corner were playing lively carols, and Aravis gazed out at the massive hall as she chewed her way through a thick slice of roast that oozed gravy at every bite. Most of the occupants were engaged with the food set before them, but that was to be expected—others watched her back with unabashed gazes, their dark eyes cast in shadows by the plentiful but flickering candles.

She drank more eggnog.

"I miss the lodge," Cor blurted.

Aravis turned to look at him. The pronouncement had come so suddenly that she half expected the entire hall to go silent and listen, but she was the only one who had heard him. "Why?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her with big blue eyes and smiled a bit sadly. "When it was just you and me and Corin and Father."

"What about me?" Corin broke in.

"Nothing," Cor said, shoving him.

Aravis could have written a book on the topic, but no words seemed to be the right ones, so she reached under the table and wrapped her fingers around his. "I do, too," she said after a few minutes, unable to keep the sincerity out of her voice, and he smiled again.

She ended up drinking more cups of eggnog than she could keep track of, and the heady liquor and rich food erased all thoughts of Khurshid from her mind. It was Christmas, after all, and there were presents to be had after dessert! Dar on her right was cheerful and charming, and Cor on her left kept up a stream of silly jokes and anecdotes so she didn't have a moment to let her mind slip into its dark, unpleasant recesses.

"Aravi'," Corin slurred midway through the mint pies and iced creams. "_Arrr-aaa-visssss_."

"What, Corin," she answered, her own voice a little unsteady from the drink.

"I jus' wan' you t'know 'at we put _misss-tell-toe_ up in your chambers for t'night."

"Will there be much kissing while we open presents?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

"I _'ope so_," Corin answered fervently.

"I 'ad nothing t'do with it," Cor said, holding up his hands.

"We've never 'ad mistletoe before," Aravis wavered.

Corin rolled his eyes theatrically. "'At's because t'only girl 'as ever been _you_, Aravis!"

"Well, I can't 'elp it that you're dog-ugly," she answered, much to Cor's amusement.

There was a retching sound from somewhere down the table, and Dar cried, "Aaaaaaan' _Stig_ is t'first t'go!"

Aravis set her cup down. "We should go soon," she said to Cor, "before everyone gets too drunk to stand straigh'."

"Agreed," Cor said with a nod.

Somehow, despite his own unsteadiness, he managed to wrangle the most important few away from the liquor and, making excuses to Khurshid and thanking him for an excellent feast, they all staggered upstairs, leaning on the stone walls and each other. The walk cleared Aravis's head a little, though, and she found herself in control of all her limbs but filled with a pleasant buzzing feeling and a sensation of recklessness. There was a chance that this was to be her final Christmas—if she was still alive next year, there would be no cause for Khurshid to host another Archenlandian festival—and she resolved to make the best of it.

Servants had brought in all the gifts as dictated by their guests, and Aravis's receiving chamber was warm and lit with the glow of dozens of candles that cast dancing light upon the mounds of paper packages. The room grew crowded as she and the twins entered, followed by the four women, six men, and then Dar and his seven associates whose names Aravis really had never been able to sort out. One of them pulled out a flute and sat in a corner to pipe pretty melodies, and Aravis knew that Dar—that master of parties—had set him to do so.

The gift exchange was chaotic. Someone let Corin take charge, and Aravis found herself having to duck flying paper packages as he lobbed them across the room to the recipients; his shouts accompanied by Dar's men's drunken singing—and the occasional shrieks of maids who had the misfortune to walk beneath Corin's mistletoe bearing trays of cookies and tea—made for a mind-muddling atmosphere.

"Ah, brilliant, Aravis!" Janey called out to her, shaking out the lovely wool cloak that she had just unwrapped. "Thank you!"

"You're wel—" Aravis broke off as a package caught her in the side of the head. It was small, but she opened it to find a set of pretty penwipers; an awkward 'A' was embroidered on each one.

"That's from me," Hana said shyly.

"You?" Aravis gasped. "Hana, I never knew you knew your letters!"

"I don't," the plump girl said quickly. "I—had help for those."

Aravis, her blood heated by the eggnog, seized Hana by the shoulders and embraced her tightly. "It's _wonderful_. Thank you."

Hana blushed and smiled hugely. "Will you teach me more someday? I mean, I want to fill this pretty book…" She bashfully showed Aravis how she had tucked the small red volume into her bodice, where it fit snugly against her body.

"Absolutely," Aravis said ebulliently.

From Janey, Aravis received a new pair of leather gloves, so soft and supple they almost felt like another layer of skin when she slipped them on. Ragna and Findora both gave her neat little handkerchiefs, which Aravis normally would have abhorred, but these were the sturdy, soft kind used by farmers and soldiers, not the frothy bits of linen her ladies-in-waiting liked to send her.

Meanwhile, Corin was getting drunker and drunker in tandem with Dar's men, and Aravis began to fear for the integrity of her furniture. "Perhaps you should stop with the drinking, dear Corin," she said gently, coming over to him and beginning to pry his fingers off of his whiskey cup even as he continued to sing and lob presents with the other hand.

"Careful, Aravis," he slurred, the smell of strong spirits washing over her, "yer standin' just below t'mistletoe…"

"You wouldn't dare," she retorted, finally freeing the poor glass. "You've already kissed four girls and been slapped thrice, so I think you've had your fill."

"Janey di'nt mind…"

Aravis looked at Janey, who was a bit rosy-cheeked and bleary-looking herself. "Right. Well, I still think you're done."

"Aw, c'mon, Aravis, jus' one li'l smooch…"

"Not in the state you're in."

"Please?"

She rolled her eyes. "If I say yes, will you stop drinking and start heading to bed?"

"Promi'," he said solemnly.

"Very well. Just one, then."

Corin grinned, and just as she went up on the tips of her toes to peck him on the cheek, he swooped down and planted a wet and alcoholic kiss on her lips.

"_That's enough_!" Cor swept in and dragged Corin back by the collar, pink in the face. "You're going to bed, Corin, _now_. Take your mistletoe with you!"

Dar's men complained loudly as Cor reached up and yanked the plant from its place on a low beam. "Shut up," Cor retorted, turning on them. "You're all drunk, too. I command that everyone who is drunk leave the premises immediately. _Now_."

"Cor, that's not quite necessary," Aravis said soothingly as, grumbling, all the men got up and started gathering their things. "We just started having a good time…"

"What Corin did was inexcusable," Cor answered matter-of-factly. "And if he's willing to do that to _you_, Aravis, what do you think those other men would think of doing worse to anyone else in this room?"

"But Cor, _you're_ here. Nothing bad can happen when you're at my side—remember?"

"You never said that," he said mulishly.

"Well, I just did."

He looked like he was about to change his mind, but then the clock chimed—once—twice. It was already 2:00 in the morning! Aravis looked around and saw for the first time the utter mess created by crumpled bits of paper and spilled liquor; at the same time, she realized that her feet throbbed, her head ached, and her innards, bound up so tightly by the new stays, felt starved of blood. Nothing sounded better than bed. "Perhaps you're right," she said with a sigh. "It didn't seem like it was a very long party, though."

Cor softened visibly. "I'm glad to hear it. _Good company makes the clock sing_."

"Yes," she replied, brightening at the sound of that familiar Calormene proverb. "You're right."

"Besides," he went on, "there will be more gifts tomorrow, remember?—just for us."

"Yes," she said with a blush. "I hadn't forgotten."

He touched her cheek with his right hand. The feel of his skin on hers sent blisters of sensation rushing across her neck and scalp, and she jumped a little, caught unprepared for such a visceral reaction. "Please try to rest tonight," he said gently. "You're not sleeping well—I can see it in your face."

She wanted so, so desperately to tell him a thousand things, to warn him of Khurshid and tell him what had to be done—if she said something, would he keep his hand cupped against her face, his warm fingertips tickling the skin behind her ear?—but she was peripherally aware of Ram puttering about the room and helping stragglers collect their things, so she only smiled. "I will."

"And don't forget these," he said, dropping his hand to her shoulder. His long fingers traced the three raised ridges that arched up above the collar of that beautiful blue dress, making her take a quick breath. "No amount of ointment will ever get rid of them."

"Nor should they," she answered firmly, and he grinned.

"No. Now—by my own command, I need to leave."

"You're not _that_ drunk."

"Drunk enough," he answered, stepping back. "Enough time and I will be another Corin."

"I bet you'd be a better snogger, though," Aravis said brazenly.

"Is that a challenge?" Cor answered with another grin, and the step forward he took made Aravis's heart start hammering in her ears and her palms go damp.

"Sire," came a calm voice, and Aravis realized that Ram was standing nearby. "I would offer my services to you to assist the women back to their rooms."

Cor looked at him. "Oh. Ah…yes. I'm coming, Ram. Yes. _You're_ drunk, too," he shot back at Aravis, whose heart was still pounding at a ridiculous rate.

"Yes," she said as they left and the door bounced shut. "But not _that_ drunk."

* * *

_A/N: Merry Christmas! ;) ~SH_


	62. Chapter Sixty-Two

_Chapter Sixty-Two_

That night was one of the longest of Aravis's life. It didn't start out that way—she rang for her maids as soon as the last of Dar's men was gone, and they came to her room with buckets of hot water and soft cloths. They undressed her quickly and washed her from head to toe, the powders and creams and stains they had brushed onto her skin coming off on the cloths and staining the water a sullen grey color. When she had brushed out her hair to the very ends, one maid plaited the bottom and tied it with a pretty ribbon, helped her into a flannel nightgown that brushed the floor as she walked, and tucked her into bed with a few hot water bottles around her feet. She fell asleep quickly.

It did not take long, though, before she was suddenly and brutally awakened by her own mind, roaring to consciousness to find herself tangled up in her sheets and soaking with cold sweat. A deep shiver wracked her bones.

Her dreams had been of—what else?—her father, that miserable, shriveled old man whose bones moldered now in the family ossuary. Somehow, she had let her guard down, become complacent or happy for too long, and her brain had taken old, dormant memories and twisted them into terrifying hyper-reality. Long nights spent alone at the family shrine, ostensibly to instill more devotion in her, turned into dreams of terrible demon-shapes that writhed and snapped as she ran through endless narrow corridors. Her father's firm grasp tightened around her arm until his fingers were like iron as he dragged her into the moonlight and cast her into the deep blue sea.

She remembered—it was a _memory_, now, not a dream—the night she came to watch him play cards with other tarkaans, the room dark and smoky as they shuttered the latticed windows against the cool night air. One of them called to her, made her sit on his lap as he threw a pair of worn dice onto the table and took a deep breath of the bubbling pipe near his elbow. He blew the bitter-smelling smoke against her cheek and pinched her roughly. She cried out—how could she not? She was merely nine years old—and, to chastise her, he cuffed her sharply, making her lip bleed. Her father had her taken away by her nursemaid, and several hours later, he dragged her out of bed and beat her with a wooden cane so viciously she couldn't rise from her bed for a week.

Her next breath escaped her in a sob, and she threw aside the wrinkled sheets and paced around the room for a long few minutes, trying desperately to reorient herself to present, to the reality of the four stone walls around her.

She went to the window and pressed her face against the cold glass. It was snowy outside—_it is not snowy in Calormen_—and she could see the shadows of the crenellations and battlements of the traditional castle—_there are no castles in Calormen_.

_Father is dead. I am free to do as I please_.

_No, you are not_, a sinister voice whispered in the back of her head. Khurshid's swarthy face swam before her, hung suspended from the stars as they blinked innocently in the inky sky. _After all you have done for him, Cor will abandon you to the very fate you came to Archenland to avoid._

She could still feel the crushing pressure of her father's hands on her arms, see the blackened teeth in his mouth as he drew back his hand and let it fall, fall, fall, onto her eye, her temples, her tender lips.

Aravis suddenly wanted nothing more than that silly little scrap of paper she had torn from the gargantuan book of fairytales. Her heart, already pounding so hard that she felt faint, leapt into her ears and thumped as she bolted to the bed and looked desperately for it on the little table next to the mattress—she had left it there just a few nights ago, hadn't she? She pulled each drawer out and turned it upside down. Nothing. It wasn't caught in the curtains hanging from her bedposts, either, nor was it under the bed. She searched high and low, her efforts growing more and more hysterical as time wore on.

Finally, she gave up and crawled onto the window seat, shaking from head to toe. Her head threatened to burst, and for the first time in her life, she felt her grip on sanity weaken a little, felt herself slip infinitesimally towards the swirling black whirlpool that had been such a part of her childhood.

That is how the twins found her, curled up against the frosty window in the partial dawn light and so lost in the murky recesses of her own memories that she didn't recognize them when they first tiptoed in, and she sprang up, terrified at the intrusion, from her crouched position.

"It's just us!" came Cor's voice, firm yet thin with concern. "Aravis, it's me—it's Cor and Corin, just the two of us—it's Christmas morning—"

"Wha's her matter?"

"Shut up, Corin. Aravis, are you all right?"

"Y-yes," she said, but her voice, high and weak, betrayed her, and Cor came over to her with long strides and held a candle up to her face. The light burned her eyes.

"You look scared to death," he said. "What happened?"

"Nothing," she whimpered. She couldn't articulate the pure terror of the night that still coursed through her veins, at least not in front of Corin. He wouldn't understand—couldn't—

Cor took her hand and drew in a breath between his teeth. "You've been sitting by the window too long. Corin, go down to the kitchens and get someone to bring up some tea and hot water bottles."

"She shou' drink some whiskey," Corin answered, giggling.

"Just shut up and get it!"

"He's—s-still drunk?" she managed to stammer out as Corin left, still giggling.

Cor sighed. "I don't know why you're so surprised."

The adrenaline that had come with her sudden fear was wearing away, and the teeth-chattering trembling came back, slowly at first, and then all at once. Her father seemed to hover in the corners of her vision, lurking with a death-rattle in his chest, only a blink away. She closed her eyes.

"You're _not_ all right," Cor said, and his arms were suddenly around her, pulling her firmly against his warm chest. "Bloody hell, you're cold as ice, Aravis. Are you ill? Did you get any sleep at all?"

She clung desperately to him, sinking her nails into his back, pressing her face into his chest so hard she could hear his heart beating, terrified that he would let her go, that he, too, would melt away into another nightmare.

He sighed against her hair. "It's him, isn't it?" he said very softly, his voice puffing into her ear. "Your father."

She nodded haltingly. "So—_horrid_—"

He gripped her even tighter, repeating the phrase "I know" over and over against her head, peppered with soft kisses brushed against her ear and cheek and temple, until she felt reality coalescing, settling down and fading into solid truth. Kidrash Tarkaan was dead, and Cor was alive, _very much alive_, and she wanted to keep him that way.

The door banged open and Corin came tottering in, bearing a tray that dripped tea on the cold flagstones. "Y'er tea, milord 'n lady," he drawled.

"Right," said Cor to her, "let's get you back in bed to warm up properly. Where's your robe?"

She pointed it out to him, and he helped her into bed as she wrapped the thin silk around herself with shaking fingers. "I'm feeling better now, you know…"

"You still look like you've seen a ghost," Cor answered, then grimaced and said, "Sorry, you know what I mean."

She had to smile a little as she pulled the blankets up over her legs and let Cor slip hot water bottles around her feet and under her back.

Corin wobbled and set the tray down on the mattress beside her. "I may've smashed summat' t'cups," he slurred, and it was the truth—only the saucers were left, and they and a plate of pastries were swimming in the tea that had sloshed out of the pot.

Aravis took the tea cozy and rescued the pastries with it. "There are whiskey tumblers out in my sitting room, Corin, if you want to—"

Corin was gone the moment she said 'whiskey.'

"He tries," Cor sighed, taking the tray and emptying the spilled tea into the chamberpot. "At least he's not crying anymore."

"He is a happy drunk today."

"I found him drowning in his own tears this morning, though. I was concerned, because usually he wakes me up on Christmas morning, not the other way around."

"What time is it?" she asked as Corin came back in with his hands full of whiskey glasses, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Nigh af'er eight," Corin answered. "_Faaaaar_ too late for present-opening—!"

"Let Aravis have her tea first," Cor said sternly. "Maybe if we get some food into you, Aravis, you can stop that shivering. You're making me feel ill just watching you."

Corin gave him a tumbler, and Cor filled it nearly to the brim with hot tea. Aravis took it gratefully into her hands and sipped at it. "I'll be all right in a mo'," she said with a sigh, letting the steam warm her face.

"_Presents_," Corin said peevishly.

Aravis drank her tea and ate one of the least-soggy pastries. Slowly, warmth began to spread from her toes and stomach into the rest of her body, loosening the taut muscles that ached and throbbed in those places. She sighed and leaned against the pillows a bit.

"Better?" Cor asked gently.

She slipped her hand into his and held his fingers tightly to prove that hers had stopped trembling so badly. "Now that you're here," she whispered.

"_Presents_!" Corin shouted.

"Fine!" Cor yelled back, and Aravis made room for them both on the bed.

Corin scrambled up onto the mattress with his arms full of crumpled packages, bringing with him a whiff of alcohol that made Aravis wrinkle her nose. "You should stop drinking so much," she said to him as he sat tailor-fashion at the foot of the bed, wobbling.

"Naaw," Corin answered with a sloppy grin, "t'liquor makes Cor prettier."

Aravis laughed.

"Just pass them out," Cor said. "I can't possibly win against the both of you."

"That's what makes it fun," Aravis told him.

"For _you_, perhaps. _Oof_!" Cor took one of the packages in the side of his head. "Ah, that's yours! Bloody hell, that hurt…"

Aravis looked at the flannel-wrapped object in his hand with renewed interest and reached for it, but Cor held it out of her grasp and said, "No, Aravis, who always goes first?"

"_I do_," Corin bellowed joyously. "Which one of you _sliiiiimy bastards_ 'll give me one ter open?"

Cor tossed over a package and Corin tore into it eagerly, throwing paper every which way and giving a wail of approval when he saw that it was a soft new leather belt with a polished bronze buckle.

"A belt?" Aravis asked in confusion. "Since when has Corin—"

"Show her your old one," Cor said to Corin.

Corin got up on his knees and enthusiastically ripped up his shirt to show them the sorry state of his belt, held together with clumsy stitching and tied, not buckled. "M'breeches kept fallin' down, Ar'vis!"

"Yes, all right," she replied, making a face at the mental image that sentence procured.

"My turn now," Cor said with a grin, and looked at her.

"Oh, all right," Aravis said. She found the flannel package in her lap and handed it over to him, but the moment his fingers touched hers to take it, she was filled with misgiving. "I decided to get this for you long ago," she said apologetically, still holding on. "Before—before Shadesport and all that. So please—please don't think I'm trying to…to say anything by it. I just thought you might look nice in it, is all."

Cor raised an eyebrow and opened the flannel with a bit more respect than Corin was currently showing, as he was humming loudly while threading his new belt through the loops on his breeches. Aravis held her breath as Cor took the tunic from the paper and shook it out.

"It's a _nimruzan_," she said faintly.

He looked at it for a long time in silence, running his big fingers over the soft fabric and looking closely at each constellation as it glimmered in the candlelight. Aravis felt ill—he didn't like it; he was trying to think of the kindest thing to say to her.

Suddenly, he got off the bed. He hadn't really been sitting on it to begin with, merely leaning, but his Aravis felt his absence physically, deep down in her bones, and she sighed. But—_oh!_ He was taking off his shirt, his fair skin glowing silver where old wounds had scarred over, and replacing it with the _nimruzan_. "How does it look?" he asked, turning to them with an expectant grin.

"M'lord an' master," Corin answered around a mouthful of soggy pastry. "Lookee you."

Cor looked to Aravis. "Do I wear it properly?"

Aravis could hardly find the breath to speak, but she managed a smile and said, "Normally, one would tuck it in and wear a bright sash with it, but—no, no," she added as he went to obey, "it looks well on you just like that."

"'Well'," he repeated, still grinning.

_Wonderful. Devastating. Dashing. Marvelous. Perfect._ "_Quite_ well, then."

"Did you do the stitching yourself?" he asked, looking down at the hem with renewed interest, pulling it up to his face and baring his flat stomach with its trail of auburn hair.

"Yes," Aravis said with a blush. "It's the c—"

"Constellations. I recognized them. It's…it's fantastic, Aravis, really."

Corin yawned pointedly, but Aravis had to smile. "You don't have to wear it if you don't want. I just thought…well—every nobleman in Calormen has a _nimruzan_ to show his status, and—you'll soon be king, so you needed your own…"

He grinned again. "Thank you, Aravis."

"Movin' on, then," Corin said loudly. "Cor, shut y'er fat mou' an' let Aravis open one."

Aravis immediately looked for the flannel-wrapped box that Cor had denied her initially, but he shook his head, still standing next to the mattress. "In a bit, Aravis."

"'Ere," Corin said, and tossed her a heavy, solid one.

It was from Lune, and somehow she knew just what it was going to be when she opened it: a jewelry box. He had given her one nearly every year, each progressively larger than the one before, and argued that she needed it to house her growing collection (false). Aravis didn't mind, though, as she knew why Lune gave them to her—they were tiny works of art, wrought in fine wood and metal and prize possessions in and of themselves.

_"Oh_!" she gasped, though, when she opened it at last.

"What?" said Cor and Corin in unison, leaning forward.

She showed it to them in awe. Rather than a glossy jewelry box, the wrapping enclosed a small, plain mahogany case. Just under the lid, nestled in purple silk, was a beautiful bronze compass, lovely in its simplicity and practicality. The markings had been done by a master artisan, and each point of the center that stretched out to a distance marker was wrought in intricate designs.

"Why a compass?" Cor asked her.

Aravis shrugged, watching enraptured as the slender needle bobbed and leaned with each movement, the bronze warm in the palm of her hand. "It's a lovely piece."

"Surely will come in handy some day, too," he answered.

She looked at him briefly in surprise—didn't he remember that she wasn't ever leaving the castle—but then smiled slightly and shut the compass's face. "Yes."

"My turn again!" Corin crowed.

He dug around until Aravis tossed him her gift, and as he tore it open and gave an ear-splitting roar of approval, she turned to Cor, who was watching his brother with amusement.

"You can sit down, you know," she said to him. "There's plenty of room."

"I wouldn't wish to take Corin's place."

Aravis looked down at the space between her and the end of the mattress. The bed she slept in every night was meant for two people, not one.

He must have noticed the look on her face, for he turned to her, completely ignoring Corin's drunken yells as he boxed an invisible enemy. "I didn't want to impose myself, Aravis, by getting in your bed without asking."

"Goodness, Cor, you make it sound so debauched. All you had to do was ask."

"I didn't know how."

She reached out a hand and pulled him down, and he sprawled into the blankets with a most ungentlemanly snort of laughter. "That's how."

"You always get the best of things," he complained. "How come your bed is so soft? Mine is scratchy, always scratchy…"

He curled up next to her and she wrapped her arms around his right one, resting her cheek against the soft fabric of his new tunic. "Can I open that gift now?"

"No," he answered, pinching her through the coverlet. "I want to wait until Corin is a bit more distracted."

"He seems occupied enough to me," she answered as Corin tripped over the leg of a little table and nearly broke it.

"It won't last long," Cor retorted, and sure enough, a moment later Corin had collapsed lengthwise across the foot of her bed, his hands still bound up in the wrap she had made him.

"It's Cor's turn," he moaned when Cor kicked at him.

Cor sat forward and rummaged amongst the packages that were left. "Ah—for me from Father."

"I wonder what that could be," Aravis laughed as he picked up a long, flat package.

Sure enough, he tore the paper and flannel away to reveal a beautiful new scabbard, wrought in leather and bronze and complete with the proper belt and suspension equipment. Corin let out a long, low whistle that was muffled by the blankets.

"It's lovely," Aravis said, looking at it over his shoulder. "Will it fit your sword properly?"

"My guess is that Father had our gifts planned before we even left," Cor answered. "I wouldn't be surprised if he had this scabbard made the same time my blade was."

"Very efficient of him.

Cor smiled happily and sat back against the pillows, holding it this way and that to inspect its balance and proportions. Meanwhile, Corin had sat up and threw Aravis her gift. It was heavy and very lumpy, and she tore it open—

"Oh, _Corin_!"

It was a new bridle. Made of soft, dark leather, it gleamed every way she turned it and even had a small little brass plate on the cheekstrap that had Inga's name on it; it was sewn in the Eastern manner, lacking a noseband so as to show off Inga's fine dappled face. "How did you—just for me?"

Corin's sloppy demeanor disappeared, and he sat looking at her with the grimmest face she had ever seen him wear. "It was supposed to be from me an' Hana," he said at last.

"Oh dear," said Cor under his breath.

"Did you help her stitch my initials, too?" Aravis asked.

Corin nodded then promptly dissolved into drunken tears. Cor rubbed his face.

"Be gentle," Aravis said, touching his shoulder. "Something terrible happened between them."

"I'd be rather more inclined to feel sorry for him if he didn't insist on trying to find the solution at the bottom of a bottle," Cor answered briskly, and Aravis had to agree. "It's your turn again, brother," he said loudly, tapping Corin's shoulder with his final gift. "It rattles, hear it?"

Corin sat up, rubbing his face, and took the proffered box. "From Father?" he asked glumly.

Cor nodded.

Corin ripped the paper off the box and gave a shout. "_Tumblers_! Oh, Father al'ays knows…"

Aravis had to laugh a little as Corin tumbled out of bed and made a beeline for the little table near the window. Tumblers had been his favorite game as a child, and still was: on a little wooden board one would set up row upon row of heavy pins. The goal was to knock as few of these pins down as possible using the swinging wooden ball. As children, they spent most of their time trying to smash the pins with the ball, and would whoop and holler with delight when they went skittering across the room, but Corin had gotten quite good at it as they grew up, and was surprisingly skillful at the dexterous game for such a large man.

"Is he sufficiently distracted now?" Aravis asked Cor.

He looked down at her for a moment, then smiled a little. "I suppose. But before I give it to you—it's not quite finished. I'll have to take it back and keep working on it. And it's not all I wanted it to be, but what I could do with what I had. But it's yours—it's all yours."

She was itching with anticipation now. "I understand."

Finally, he handed over the flannel package. Aravis sat up and took it reverently—it was heavy in her hands, and she unwrapped it with care. It was a small leather volume, tooled carefully yet simply. Thick, blank vellum pages whispered under her fingers as she opened it in the middle, then flipped breathlessly to the very beginning. There, trimmed and pasted carefully to the first page, was that silly little illustration of the dusky maid and her beast-prince.

"I saw it on your table when I came to fetch your coverlet the other night," Cor said shyly. "You're not mad, are you?"

It took Aravis a long time to realize that she was crying.

"You don't like it," Cor said with alarm. "I'm sorry—I'll put it away—"

He reached out to take it, but Aravis pulled back and hugged the book tight against her chest, squeezing it until she thought her heart would burst. Heat flooded her body. It was perfect—so perfect—so _Cor_—

Cor got up and fetched her one of the soft handkerchiefs Findora had given her, and she mopped her face as more tears fell.

"Thank you, Cor," she managed shakily.

"I'm sorry it upset you."

"It's _wonderful_! I—I…"

Words failed her. How could she possibly express how much that small little volume with its unassuming leather face meant to her? It was an extension of Cor's own soul, a little piece of him, in her hands…

She rose up on her knees and put her arms as far around him as they would go. "It's perfect," she whispered into his ear; any louder and she would start to weep again.

Cor slipped an arm under her legs and swept her into his lap; it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, to be curled up against him with the book in her lap and his arms around her in a firm embrace. For mere lack of words to say, she turned her head and kissed first the thin, silvery scar that ran parallel to his hairline, and then the very subtle bruising that still darkened the side of his nose.

"Why don't you look at it?" Cor said after a few minutes of silence that was broken only by the sounds of Corin's intense game of tumblers.

Aravis had to untangle her arms from around him and brace her shoulder against his before she could access the book that still lay in her own lap. She opened it to the first illustration, that sweet, perfect drawing of the beast-prince and the maid. The accompanying story was written in Cor's own hand, not the stuffy decorative handwriting he had used in the previous book. It was not as neat, but somehow, that made it better.

She flipped through it with a smile. There were only a few stories yet, written in the same hand, but the illustrations that accompanied each were what really caught Aravis's eye: unlike the ornate, gold-encrusted paintings of the previous book, these were all done in pen and ink in Cor's organic style of sketching. Somehow, it was more beautiful this way, his affinity for the natural world making the drawings come to life and look like they could leap off the page.

"It's lovely," she sighed, running her finger across a page. "Will you read me one? You owe me, remember?"

He grinned down at her, clearly pleased that she had asked. "Which one?"

"Hm—the one about the Morrigan."

"The battle goddess…yes, of course."

She moved down off his lap and got under the covers with a yawn; Cor got up and pulled the heavy curtains of her bed shut against the daylight and the sounds of Corin's game so that it was just the two of them in the soft warmth of her blankets, the small space lit with the orange light of the lone candle that flickered in its sconce over their heads.

"'The Morrigan meets Cuchlain'," Cor read in a low, soothing voice. "_Cuchlain attracted the attention of the Morrigan because of his exploits. While sleeping deeply after an exhausting day of single combats, Cuchlain was startled awake by a great shout coming from the far north, which in that day was the realm of the dead. He ordered his charioteer to get the chariot ready for them to seek out the source of this strange cry. _

_"'They travelled north and met a woman riding towards them in another chariot. She wore a red dress, a long red cloak, had red hair and eyebrows and carried a long grey spear. Cuchlain greeted this woman and asked her who she was, and she replied that she was daughter of a king called Buan the Eternal and had fallen in love with him after hearing about his deeds. Cuchlain did not recognize the woman as a form of the Morrigan and brusquely replied that he had better things to do than concern himself with a woman's love._'"

Aravis, curled up as close to Cor's warmth as she dared, had already lost the thread of the story's plot. She didn't care overmuch about the tales of the Old One's forgotten religions—Cor's gentle voice washed over her in waves; she was drowsy, cozy and cared for and drifting dangerously close to sleep.

"'_The Morrigan replied that she had been helping him throughout his combats and that she would continue to do so in return for his love. Cuchlain arrogantly replied that he did not need the help of any woman in battle. "If you will not have my love and help, then you shall have my hatred and enmity," she said. "When you are in combat with an enemy as good as yourself, I shall come against you in many shapes and hinder you, until your opponent has the advantage."_

The next thing Aravis knew, she was staring at the dark cloth of her bedcurtains. It was quiet. The candle above her head had gone out, and Cor lay beside her with his arm thrown above his head and the book laying open on his chest as it rose and fell with his deep, slumbering breaths.

She heard it again: a very quiet _tap, tap,_ _tapping_ on the door. That must have been what woke her from her light sleep. Carefully, so as not to disturb Cor, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the room—Corin, too, was snoring heavily in front of the glowing fire, hopefully sleeping off his drink.

Wrapping the robe around her waist, she opened the door cautiously. "Who is it?"

"Ram, milady."

Aravis was fully awake in an instant. "Did you find it?" she asked, stepping out into the receiving chamber and closing the door behind her.

"Indeed, ma'm, I found the documents, as you said."

"And?"

Ram looked grim, and Aravis sighed. "It was indeed from Finn Bogton," he said, nodding very slightly. "Even if his gryphon did not indicate, I would recognize his hand anywhere."

Aravis was tempted to ask _how_, but she held her tongue.

"I went back this morning," Ram went on, "and found that the letter is still in the drawer, but the contract, milady…"

"Gone, isn't it," Aravis said. It was not a question. "He sent it back with his signature."

Ram nodded. "Are you still willing to proceed, milady?"

"Of course," she answered briskly, truthfully. "What other choice do we have? Cor must be kept safe. Ultimately, either I live, or he does."

"You are correct."

Aravis stood for a moment, letting the realization of the task before her settle in. It rested on her shoulders like a warm shroud, heavy and dark but comforting in a way—satisfying, relieving. This much she could do for Cor. "Then," she said with a small smile, "the game, Ram, is on!"

"Yes, milady."

"I must play my part with earnest from here on out. How did I do last night?"

"Spectacularly. I heard your name whispered from one end of the castle to the other."

Aravis blushed. "Good things?"

"Very good things. His lordship will not be able to ignore them."

"Excellent. I should begin to unpack some of my bags, then, so my maids will gossip that I seem to intend to stay a while. _Oh_, that reminds me—I need to give you my blade. Cannot be found with that if I am to keep Khurshid in the dark."

She turned to go back into the room, but Ram caught her arm, then dropped his hand immediately and had the decency to look abashed. "Pardon my familiarity," he said quickly, "but milady, I quite think you had better keep your sword close at hand."

"Tarkheenas do not carry swords, Ram."

"Yes, but you are more important than that."

His words startled her—what could be more important than a tarkheena? How could she possibly be more important than her rank?

"Keep it close," he went on warningly. "You are treading into unknown territory, and the time may come when you need a weapon. My recommendation is to hide it, somewhere where it will not be found easily."

She readily accepted Ram's instructions—even though she knew she would never have the opportunity to wield it again, knowing it would be close comforted some of her unease. "I will. Thank you, Ram."

"Someday the kingdom will know it is in your debt."

"Ha," she answered wryly, "_that_ will be the day."

Ram bowed, and she dismissed him with a nod and slipped back inside the warm, dark bedroom. Even with the weight of the dark shroud on her head and shoulders, she felt calmer, more collected, than she had in years, content to know her duty.

She found her sword in the bottom of the wardrobe where her new dresses hung. Pausing to drape a thin blanket over Corin's snoring form, she tiptoed to her bed, holding the blade carefully so that the buckles on the leather straps would not clink together and wake Cor. The most logical place to hide it would be under the mattress, of course—so she put it elsewhere. Carefully, quietly, she stepped up on the mattress and slipped the sword high up on top of the bed's velvet ceiling. It slipped quietly out of sight, but when she reached up, she could brush the cool leather with the tips of her fingers. _Perfect_.

Cor was still asleep. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Aravis slipped the book out from under his arm, holding her breath for a minute as he stirred. When she was sure he had slipped back into sleep, she gazed down at that beautiful book and felt a mixture of joy and pain. The pages scraped her fingers as she compulsively flipped through it again, absorbing all the details, the lovely quirks that made it so special and so _Cor_.

She soon found the bit she knew she would salvage when, inevitably, Khurshid took the book from her and called it northern nonsense. On the inside cover—how had she missed this before?—she found a small inscription scribbled in Cor's hand, the same handwriting he used in their private letters: _To, Aravis. With love, Shasta_.

Cor rolled over, and she sensed him wake before she turned and saw him, eyes still shut, feeling blindly for her in the space she had vacated earlier. The confusion on his face when he didn't find her made her feel warm.

"Sorry," she whispered, setting the book aside and crawling back in with him. "I had a word with one of my maids…"

"_Hm_," he said, already slipping back into sleep as he curled up against her with his face in her shoulder.

Aravis wrapped her arms around him and stroked the silky softness of his hair until his breathing evened out and he slept the sleep of the unperturbed; she was glad she could shield him from the bitterness of the world if for only a little longer. _To, Shasta,_ she thought. _With love, Aravis._

* * *

_A/N: "The Morrigan Meets Cuchlain" was adapted from the version of the Celtic legend "Cúchulainn and the Morrigan" found on Shee-Eire (the link can be found on our profile). _


	63. Chapter Sixty-Three

_Chapter Sixty-Three_

The following few days were halcyon ones, filled with long walks and good books and silly games that almost always ended with scraped knees and sore cheeks. Corin was the only one of them who did not enjoy himself wholeheartedly, for his hangover was so severe that he was seen by Khurshid's own physician who promptly drugged him and sentenced him to bed rest for several days.

"Told you," said Cor.

Corin moaned and vomited into the basin he held in his lap.

Aravis rolled her eyes.

The weather was slowly improving, as well: the benefit to wintering in the southeast was that, though the snows came early, they didn't stay long. As the days crept towards the turning of the year, the near-constant snowfall petered off, and one day the sun even peeked out from behind the clouds and glimmered on the pillowy surface of the landscape. Soon, the snows would start to melt, clearing the way for travel to resume.

Meanwhile, the new year would not be welcomed with any celebration, Khurshid told Aravis over dinner a week after Christmas. Instead, the household celebrated the Calormene festival of _Jadida Sa'id_, the Feast of Days, which fell in the middle of January by the common calendar. Aravis felt a little relieved; not only would it give them all some time to relax between feasts, but it meant that maybe—just maybe—she could prolong the inevitable.

Cor didn't make it any easier. Now that the holidays were over, she could see that he was starting to itch to get back in the saddle, and it broke her heart, but she could only smile and nod happily whenever he brought up the next leg of the journey.

"Only five more months," he said gleefully on the second of January as they trailed down to the stables to fetch the horses. "Five months, Aravis. Can you believe it?"

"Five months and you'll be king," she answered, evading the obvious.

"Five months and we'll be _home_."

"Do you think Inga's knee is healed enough? I don't want to injure it further."

"We'll ask the grooms. Aravis, do you not want to go home?"

"But will they know for sure?"

"Yes. _Aravis_." Cor seized her hand and stopped her just short of the door that led down into the stables. "Be honest with me."

_I can't_. "I am! It's just…"

"What?"

"There's so much work to be done when we get back," she said with a weak laugh. "I have to plan your coronation _and_ your wedding."

"We're not talking about that."

"We'll have to sooner or later. Only five more months, after all."

Cor looked cross at the mention of his wedding, but Aravis was secretly glad—he dropped the subject of returning to Anvard altogether, and she managed to push the thought aside as they descended into the dark, warm stables.

Raider popped his head over the door of his stall when he heard Cor's voice, ears pricked forward and massive nostrils flaring wide as Cor reached up to rub the long, dark face. "He missed me," he said with a grin.

Aravis unlatched the door and Cor stepped into the stall even as Raider immediately began sniffing and nipping at his pockets for treats. "Cruel," she said, laughing, when Cor came up empty and Raider turned away, miffed.

"I didn't think he'd be so juvenile about it," Cor answered.

She pulled a handful of sugar cubes from the pocket of her frock and put a few in Cor's palm. "If just to get him out long enough to tack him up, hmm?"

Cor grinned and fed them to Raider, who ate them so greedily that Cor had to wipe the drool off on his trousers before taking Raider's harness and leading him out into the hallway to tie him up. "Are you going to check on Inga?"

"I suppose," she answered, moving away.

Inga was standing flush against the back wall of her stall when Aravis found her, ears back and injured front foot lifted off the ground. "Poor thing," she murmured.

At the sound of her voice, though, Inga flicked her ears forward, turned to look, and then pranced happily to the stall door to look for treats. "Liar," Aravis laughed, opening the hand with the sugar cubes. Inga lipped them up, her ears so far forward they nearly touched her forelock. As she chewed, Aravis put the new bridle over her ears to adjust it properly, then slipped the bit between Inga's jaws and tightened it to fit.

"How smart she looks," Cor said as Inga licked the new bit experimentally. "Member of the king's mounted guard!"

"She's always been a fine-looking animal, hasn't she?" Aravis said teasingly as Raider nibbled the hair at the base of Cor's neck. "Better-looking than your big beast."

"Oi. It's not fair to taunt him when you know he can't speak up in his own defense."

Aravis could have said something about Corin, but she kept her mouth shut and handed the reins to Cor so he could hold Inga's head. Kneeling down, she ran her hands down the animal's left front leg, the one Cor had said she'd sprained when they slipped down the small embankment together. The knee was cool and malleable, as was the shoulder and the ankle, but there was no reason for why Inga had been favoring it. Even the frog of the hoof was clear and healthy.

"My lord and lady," came the squeaky voice of an adolescent. Inga immediately shifted her weight to the three legs on the ground and laid her ears back.

Aravis looked up to see a spotty young groom, pale with nervousness under his swarthy skin, standing at some distance from Raider. "Yes?" she asked, straightening.

The boy swallowed visibly. "Milady, I am under orders to caution you that your steed is unsound."

Aravis waited.

"And"—the boy gulped—"it should only be taken out for light exercise."

"Ah," she answered. "I see. Very well, bring me only a saddle blanket. I shan't ride her."

Cor looked curiously at her as the boy bowed and scurried away. "Inga looks quite sound to me."

"Yes," Aravis said thoughtfully, holding the bridle so that she could look straight into Inga's dark eye. The horse seemed to look back steadily, holding her gaze until she shrugged and sighed, "All the same, perhaps I should be careful."

Cor nodded and tied Raider up to brush him down before tacking him up, whistling a sad tune that stirred faint memories in the back of Aravis's mind. Meanwhile, Aravis led Inga out into the corridor, but when she got a good look at her in the light of the torches, she saw that the mare's dapple grey coat was clean and dust-free, as if she had already been brushed down this morning.

"They must be quite worried about that leg of yours," she said in Inga's ear, staring right into the animal's eye again.

"What was that?" said Cor, pausing his whistling.

"Nothing," Aravis answered. _Right. Talking to a horse. Cracking up now…_

The stable boy brought by a blanket a few moments later, and Aravis spread it out over Inga's back. "We can't go too far, Cor. Not if Inga is unsound."

"Of course," Cor answered. "Just enough to get this drafty castle behind us for a bit."

Aravis smiled at him.

They led the horses out of the warm stable and into the courtyard. The sun, weak though it was, was warm on Aravis's face, and she let her eyes slip shut for a moment as she soaked it up.

She opened them quickly, however, knowing that she needed to be aware of her surroundings. Just because her marriage hadn't been finalized yet didn't mean the Finnii weren't around. Indeed, as she let her eyes adjust to the light, she noticed that there were guards posted all around the smoky, dirty courtyard; two by the gate, three near the well, and several more walking the low stone walls surrounding them. Aravis watched them. It almost seemed as if Khurshid was expecting an attack.

_Or an escape_.

She shivered despite herself.

"You all right?" Cor asked, grinning uneasily down at her.

"What?" she answered with false conviction. "Oh, yes, of course! Just enjoying the sunshine."

"It is nice, isn't it?" he replied, relaxing.

The horses plodded along behind them with their heads low and eyes lidded; Aravis almost felt bad for dragging them out into the cold, but then she reminded herself that horses were working animals who needed to be kept in shape, and it probably wasn't entirely her winter coat that made Inga look so round.

As soon as they had made it outside the main gate, the portcullis lifted by yet more guards, Aravis halted Inga and, using a stump to step up on, swung up bareback, her skirts and trousers riding up to bare part of her lower legs to the cold air. It felt delicious, and Inga snorted indignantly as Aravis shook her plait back and drew her up tight.

"I thought you were going to go easy on her," Cor said, looking up at her with suspicion.

Aravis had to laugh. "I will, Cor! But that doesn't mean I won't ride her at all. Go on, get up!"

Cor didn't have to be told twice. He clambered up into the saddle and grinned down at her. "I want to take you down the road to Muthill. It's probably thawed a bit by now."

"Yes, all right," she answered. "But not—"

"Not too far, I know. But enough—"

"To get the castle out of sight for a while. I know."

Cor shook his head and urged Raider down the muddy path so Aravis had to kick Inga into a trot to catch up.

"You don't like it when I tease you?" she asked, grinning, as Inga kept pace with Raider.

"If I said I did, would you stop?"

"Hardly. Teasing is not contingent upon the victim's wish to participate."

Cor snorted. Together they rounded a bend in the path, and Aravis could see that it straightened and widened out into a slushy road. Inga quivered beneath her, and Aravis could feel her strides widening.

"I think Inga wants her head," she said to Cor. "Should I give it to her?"

"Well, if she hurts her knee again, it's her own fault, isn't it?"

As if understanding his master's words, Raider pulled against his own reins and blew hard. Inga caught his restlessness and stamped a rear foot. Carefully, Aravis let the reins drop and tied them loosely so they wouldn't slip and tangle in her hooves. Inga quivered with pent-up energy, but she restrained herself until Aravis could get situated safely on the saddle blanket with her hands tangled up in Inga's mane. It had been quite some time since she had ridden bareback.

Inga melted into motion like a ghost. Aravis, curled up on her back, felt the transition from the different gaits only peripherally, and Inga's movements were so fluid she felt a bit like she was floating. Only the thundering of Raider's hooves on the same ground kept her situated, kept her in her own body and reminded her that she was her own entity, separate and distinct from the animal that pulsed between her knees.

The wind bit her face and the exposed skin on her legs. Its long icy fingers tore at her hair, ripping the ribbon away and pulling the plait out until her hair streamed out behind her. Still, she clung to the heat of Inga's back, her elbows and knees tight as the thudding of hooves on frozen dirt took the place of the sound of her heartbeat.

"You'll be sore in the morning," Cor said when, at last, she pulled up, panting almost as much as Inga.

Aravis closed her eyes and straightened, letting the smells and sounds of the forest swallow her for a moment. "It was worth it."

She heard him dismount, landing on the frozen ground with the tinkling sound of his sword in its new sheath. "Come on," he said to her, "I want to show you something."

"Is it safe?"

"Of course it's safe—I'm with you, remember? Give me your hand."

Aravis opened her eyes and let him help her from the saddle. Her knees were a little wobbly from the exertion of clinging to Inga's back, but Cor tied the horses to a nearby tree and helped her navigate the slushy underbrush as they left the main road. "Where are we going?" she asked. "If you get us lost, so help me—"

"I'd rather be lost than face your wrath any day," Cor answered. "Come on, it's only a few minutes away from the road."

Aravis looked nervously over her shoulder. "If you say so…"

"I stopped here on our way to Muthill," Cor replied. "Beautiful foliage here, look—"

She caught one of the little journals he was always scribbling in as he threw it at her, and a ribbon marked a page that was so full of little sketches and notes that she had trouble deciphering it at first. "You brought me here to show me shrubs?" she asked skeptically.

"_Foliage_. And no. Just wait a moment, will you?"

"I hope you're not making me get my feet wet for a shrub."

"_Foliage_."

"You _do_ want to show me shrubbery—"

"Would you stop complaining? It's right here!"

She tossed the book back to him just as he cast the other arm wide to show her a small, frozen pond. "What is?"

"The _pond_, Aravis!"

"Of what use could a pond possibly be for me?"

He only grinned, then stepped out onto the ice, slipping a little on the second step so she gasped. "Come on! It'll be like old times."

"Old times when they confirmed the ice was solid. And when they gave us skates."

Cor tucked the book back into his pocket. "Aw, where's your sense of adventure gone?"

"To the bottom of that pond, where you will be in a few minutes, I'm sure."

"Then come and fetch me," he said archly, reaching for her.

"Cor, _no_, the ice won't hold us both—"

"I won't let you fall in, come on!"

He gave her hand a tug—why had she even given it to him in the first place?—and pulled her out onto the ice. She swore she felt it buckle under her weight. "Oooh, you'll kill me yet, Cor! Let go of me—if the ice cracks and you fall in, I don't want to be dragged in after you."

"Have it your way, then," he said, and released her hand before turning and walking out to the center of the pond. "But I promise you, it's solid!" He jumped up and down on the ice to prove his point.

_He may just kill himself today,_ Aravis thought dryly, _and save the Finnii a fair bit of work_. "I'm going ashore."

"No," Cor said, and slipped and slid back to her side. "Come on! When's the next time you'll play like this again?"

Aravis made herself smile a little. "Heaven knows."

"Then come on." He tugged her hand and pulled her out with him towards the center of the pond.

"You're really making me do this after what happened the last time I was near a body of water?"

"I promise not to try to drown you." He turned around her and began pushing her before him, hands around her waist.

"Stop!" she shrieked as they picked up speed. "I'm going to fall in!"

"No, you're not," he retorted with a laugh, "I've got you!"

She gripped his wrists until her fingers hurt. "I swear on the Lion and my mother's grave, Cor, that I'll flay you alive…"

"Just relax, would you?"

The cool wind ran its fingers through Aravis's hair as she took a quick breath and held it. For a long moment, there was no sound but the scraping of her shoes on the rough ice, the sigh of Cor's breath in her ear, and the whispering wind. Cor's hands tightened ever so slightly around her.

At that moment, her boots caught the edge of a branch that had partly frozen on the surface of the water, and she had the sickening sensation of being weightless before she landed palms down on the ice. Cor went down hard behind her, and she thought for a moment that he had seriously injured himself, but she turned and saw that the strange noise he was making was really just choked laughter.

"I _told_ you," she said, sitting up.

"Correction: you said we'd fall _in_. I never made any promises about not falling_ down_."

Aravis took the dirty snow and ice that had accumulated on her fingers and stuffed it down his shirt. "Stop yowling!" she called, scrambling to her feet and slipping to the shore. "You'll wake the whole forest!"

He scrambled to his feet to give chase, but his boots slipped out from beneath him before he got far, and Aravis couldn't hold back a hearty laugh as he fell spectacularly. "Some things never change," she said as he tiptoed back to shore. "Come on. Let's keep going."

"Give me a mo'," he groaned, dragging himself up to shore and collapsing on a fallen log to massage his ribs.

"You'll feel that in the morning."

"Yes, thanks."

She sat next to him. "At least you have a morning to look forward to, hm?"

He paused in his massaging and looked over at her. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

"You're extraordinarily blessed, you know."

"I do."

She reached over and pushed the hair out of his forehead. "No, Cor—I mean, have you ever _thought_ about how blessed you are?"

"Every day," he answered softly.

"Even when I tease you mercilessly?"

"_Especially_ when you tease me mercilessly."

Aravis smiled a little. "I hope you don't forget that once you're king."

"What—how blessed I am? Or how you tease me mercilessly?"

"Both."

"I won't. I'll have you to remind me, won't I?"

She only smiled.

He looked sharply at her. "_Won't I_?"

"Not this again, Cor!"

"Well, what other conclusion would you have jump to, Aravis?"

"One that doesn't involve the future," she said with a bit more bite than she intended. Cor looked at her in that uncanny way he had of seeming to gaze right through her defenses. "Oh, stop that. Tell me about the shrubbery."

"You hate the shrubbery."

"Not as much as talking about this."

He heaved a heavy sigh, and Aravis was almost overcome with a wave of guilt. She should have known better—Cor wasn't stupid. He knew she was keeping something from him. "Fine," he said. "The shrubbery. It's thick and dense here. Good for livestock—the horses like its sweetness—but it kills the trees it grows around. I got a drawing of one here, see?"

He showed her a sketch he had done of a twisted, deadened tree that was surrounded and engulfed by dark weeds. For some reason, it made Aravis feel uneasy, and she remembered the thin stream of smoke that had disappeared in the air above the forest those weeks ago. "Yes, I see," she said absently, then noticed he was watching her closely. "Let's not bring any of it back to Anvard, hmm?"

"The last thing our trees need," he answered. "But Aravis…"

"What, Cor?"

"I want to show you another."

"Yes, all right."

He took the book back and began flipping through its pages. As she watched, she realized he was _blushing_—a dark red color had spread high across his freckled cheeks, and one of his ears was so bright she could almost feel the heat radiating from it.

"If you don't like it," he stammered, "just tell me and I'll tear it out right away."

"I'm sure it's lovely," she answered soothingly. "Your drawings always are."

He didn't answer. Once he found the page he was looking for, he thrust the book at her, leapt up, and paced down to the edge of the pond where the ice was already starting to melt. She watched him for a minute as he kicked at the brush around his feet, ears still ruby red. "Have you looked at it yet?" he asked, his back to her.

"No," she answered.

He ran his hand through his hair, and Aravis thought she had better look at the drawing before he lost his nerve and ripped the thing out of her hands.

She looked down.

Her own face stared up at her from the page. For a strange moment, she thought wildly that she was looking into a mirror—but that was impossible. She could see the strokes of the pencil he had used to draw it. Still, she couldn't look away; this was the face she saw only rarely, its expression open and wild, mouth parted slightly as her dark hair tumbled messily over one shoulder.

"I certainly hope none of my ladies-in-waiting ever see this," she said stupidly after a long few minutes of silence.

Cor turned slightly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I don't…"

"I mean, look at me," she answered, holding the drawing up next to her face. "I look quite unkempt. When have you ever seen me like this?"

It took the poor man a moment to realize she was teasing him, but when he did, a relieved grin spread across his reddened face. "Ah! Hahaha."

She looked again at the drawing for a long time. Despite the Pencil Aravis's windswept look, she noticed now that there was a warmth to her expression, a slight upturn of her lips. "Did you do this from memory, Cor?" she asked, wracking her mind in vain to try and recall any time she might have sat for the sketch.

"Sort of," he answered bashfully.

"When?"

He kicked a pebble into the pond. "After Kostis."

"But we fought after Kostis."

He shrugged. "Just because we have rows doesn't mean I stop liking you."

It was Aravis's turn to fight a blush. "Why did you…"

"It's your horse face," he answered.

"My _what_—"

"No, I mean, the way you look when you've had a good ride—"

"_Cor_—"

"_I mean_ that that's when you look happiest!" The words ricocheted off the branches of the tree around them, and Cor looked embarrassed. He took a deep breath before continuing. "You're a very cautious person, Aravis. It's not often that I can see your emotions on your face. But when you've run Inga until she's flecked with sweat, you look—you look _happy_. I don't know any other word for it. Just…_happy_. And I like seeing you that way."

"So you drew me looking that way?"

"Yes."

She nodded slowly. The drawing in her hands, the man in front of her, baffled her on several levels. How could an unhindered expression of hers, rare enough as it was, be so important to someone that they would go to such lengths to preserve it? And did she really look happy so rarely? "That's kind of you, Cor."

"No, it's not. It's just a fact."

He looked miserable, his shoulders hunched forward, and Aravis softly closed the sketchbook and got up to go over to him. "But it _was_ awfully sweet."

Cor shrugged and looked out over the pond. She tucked the book into the pocket of his cloak and pulled his hand from his pocket with both of hers to warm it, holding it close to her hip. They stood together for a few minutes in silence. Aravis felt the weight of her dark shroud more heavily across her shoulders than before; it ached deep in her bones, but the truth congealed on her tongue and seared her.

Before she could retreat further inside, though, Cor turned to her with a wide grin and, before she could react, pulled her back out onto the ice.

"_No_!" she shrieked, much to his amusement. "_Cor, that was hardly fair_—"

"Just hold on to me, Aravis, and you'll be just fine."

"That's what you said last time."

"I mean it now."

Aravis could feel the ice buckling under her weight, and the soles of her shoes began to dampen. "This isn't safe, Cor. Something's wrong."

"You'll be fine!"

"Yes, because I'm going back to shore!"

She marched carefully back to the log where they had been sitting. "I want to move on."

Cor made a face and watched her slip and slide to safety. "Spoilsport."

"Cor."

"What?"

"Race you back to the horses?"

He swore and nearly slipped trying to make chase. Aravis laughed—he really was like a gangly yearling sometimes—and plunged into the underbrush they had clambered through. She could hear him catching up already.

"Don't lay a hand on me," she called back teasingly. "I'll scream!"

Just as she knew he would, Cor seized hold of her skirt just as she burst back out onto the road and, laughing, made to throw her over his shoulder just as she reached out for Inga's bridle.

But—

_No._

"_Stop_!" she screamed frantically.

Cor hesitated, taken aback by her urgency, and froze for a moment. It was long enough. As Aravis stared, her fragile world came crashing down, the dark shroud suffocating her.

"Get on Raider," she bit out.

"What?" Cor asked, bewildered. "But I thought we were going to—"

"_Get on the damn horse,_" she snapped. "We have to go back."

"What the devil got into you?"

Aravis whipped around and held Inga's reins out in a trembling hand. Tied around both bits of leather was a length of scarlet cord, bound in a neat but tight knot.

_A warning_.

"They're here, Cor," she whispered. "Get up. You're not safe."

Cor blanched and drew his sword. "Nor are you. Come on."

They scrambled into place. Cor was still settling into the saddle, but Aravis felt eyes upon them like a swarm of gnats; murderers followed watchers. She seized Raider's reins and kicked Inga into an uncomfortable canter.

"Aravis—"

"Shut up, Cor."

They sprinted back the way they had come; Raider protested being dragged, but Inga snapped her teeth at them and pushed hard against Aravis's tight hold until she gave her her head.

This time, though, the brisk wind did not clear away Aravis's worries. They followed her like a shadow, nipping at her heels and tearing at her cloak. Finnii could be anywhere; they could drop out of the trees and cut Cor's throat before he could even make a sound. She looked over at Cor. He was pale beneath his freckles, but the look he returned was steady and determined.

Together they rushed back towards the gate. Aravis had never before been so glad to see such a dreary-looking castle; the moment she saw the guards call for the portcullis to be raised, she breathed easier, though such a reaction was foolish as well, knowing what she knew.

On the other hand, even the Finnii would not be so bold as to assassinate Cor in the middle of a crowded courtyard. They dismounted shakily, and Aravis leaned against Inga for a long moment before a groom came to take her back. "You all right?" she asked Cor as, limping, Inga went away.

He nodded wordlessly. "I think so. You?"

"Now I am."

He took her hand and gave a slightly wobbly reassuring smile. "I think I might go to bed early tonight, though, all the same. Whiskey and hot milk will make all this seem like a bad dream."

Aravis shivered at the thought, but masked it with a smile.

* * *

"I hear you rode out today."

Aravis was midway through a sip of dessert wine when Khurshid spoke to her, so she swallowed quickly and patted her lips dry with a handkerchief. "Indeed, my lord. I was entranced by your lovely grounds."

Khurshid smiled and refilled her goblet before seating himself in the chair opposite her, warming his feet by the fire that roared in his study's hearth. "I am glad to hear of it."

"How are they in the spring and summer, might I ask?"

"Lovely," he answered. "Full of unexpected exotic flowers, not unlike yourself."

Aravis feigned bashfulness. "You flatter me."

"Most certainly." Khurshid gave an easy grin, and Aravis mused on the fact that he really could be quite good-looking. "Tell me, my dear lady, who did you ride out with?"

"His Royal Highness Prince Cor," she answered.

"Hm. I see."

She looked at him through her lashes, waiting for him to pursue his line of questioning.

"Do you ride out with him often?"

"I believe so."

"I see."

"You are displeased, my lord."

"I rather am, I'm afraid." Khurshid rose from his seat and paced to the hearth, where he leaned against the mantelpiece with his back to her. Aravis could feel her palms begin to sweat. "You see, milady," he went on, the expression on his face hidden from sight, "I was beginning to think we…had an arrangement."

"Oh," Aravis said, feigning surprise. "You honor me, my lord."

He turned back to her at last, his face impassive. "I do. You can see I offer much in terms of a marriage pact."

"Most certainly."

"And you yourself know that you are not in a position to bargain. Your father, milady, is dead, may Tash rest him, and your brother is a nursing calf, hardly able to keep your inheritance intact. Without a solid dowry to offer or a relative to bargain for you, you bring little to the negotiating table."

Aravis bit the inside of her cheek so hard it began to bleed.

Khurshid smiled coolly. "Do you see what I mean, Lady Aravis?"

"Indeed, my lord."

"Good. Then I shall make you an offer, which you will then accept."

"I am honored, milord."

He rubbed his hands together. "I propose that you consent to marry me. In exchange for financial and social stability, I expect you to perform all the duties that would have been required of you in Calormen, for I intend to govern my household in the ways of my ancestors once my time comes to take my father's place."

"Of course. A noble aspiration."

"An expected one." Despite his smile, the words he spoke were cold. "Do you understand me, Lady Aravis?"

_All too well_. "Yes, my lord."

"In addition, I expect you to begin comporting yourself as you will be expected to once we are wed. You must forsake the barbarian mannerisms you have picked up here. I shall not have my people thinking I married the king's whore."

The words came as sharp as a slap. Aravis nearly laughed—she didn't know what else to do—but instead, she nodded contritely. "Yes, my lord."

"Good. Do you accept?"

She swallowed bitterly. "I do, milord. I am honored to become your wife."

He smiled and, sitting back down, poured himself another glass of wine. "Excellent. Then I drink to you, my lady betrothed." In mere seconds, he had downed the whole goblet and, coughing, added, "I intend to make the announcement after _Jadida Sa'id_. You will have a new wardrobe fitted for the occasion, of course."

"My lord is too kind. May I have my lord's permission to inform my companions?"

Khurshid watched her over the rim of his glass. Without his northern nose and full mouth, his dark eyes reminded Aravis of a wolf's. "No," he said after a pause. "That is my right as the bridegroom. You shall not tell them before I make the announcement."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. You are dismissed. I shall deal with the plans for the wedding from here on out."

_Of course you will. But you will not get me that easily_. Aravis rose obediently. "My lord betrothed?"

"What is it?"

She got to her knees before him in the supplicant's position, on her knees, which bent far too readily. "My lord betrothed, I beg of you to release my cousin Elnaz to the custody of Their Highnesses. Without the assistance of a noble Calormene daughter, the princes and the capital city will degenerate again."

Khurshid smiled indulgently and took her chin in his hand. "As your replacement, hm? Yes, I think so." His hand tightened on her. "I suppose Elnaz will do me no more good. She may depart with them. But my lady betrothed—" He was now gripping her chin so hard that it hurt. "I will _not_ be cuckolded to a slave boy. Do you comprehend my meaning?"

"Yes, my lord betrothed," she replied. Her voice came out thin and trembling, and she hated herself for it.

Khurshid released her roughly. "And I see you have yet to use the salve I gave you for your laborer's hands. How eminently disappointing."

Aravis fought a wave of nausea and curtsied herself to her feet. "Yes, my lord betrothed. It shall be as you say."

He waved her away, but Aravis retreated the entire length of the study in between low curtsies, as was the custom among their fathers.

_What were you expecting_? she berated herself as she fled back to her chambers, trembling from head to foot and massaging her sore jaw. _At least you got a say in the matter this time._

Her maids waited for her in her bedchamber. As they brushed out her hair, she said to a nearby undermaid, "Fetch the vial under my mattress."

The girl got it obediently, but returned holding it gingerly and with a distressed face.

"You know what it is?" Aravis asked her.

"Yes, milady."

"Good. Apply it for me."

The head chambermaid went to fetch cotton gloves. Meanwhile, the undermaid uncorked the bottle and dipped a horsehair brush into the foul-smelling liquid. Aravis closed her eyes against the stench as she brushed it slowly onto her rough hands, concentrating the salve on the horns and calluses that covered her palms. _Cor_. When the head maid returned, they slipped the gloves on over her sticky hands, slipped her robe off, and helped her into bed with a hot water bottle.

_It's all for Cor,_ she thought as she tried to relax into her pillow. _This is what is best._

* * *

It took Aravis a long time to realize why she had awoken. She stared up at the shadowy walls of her bedchamber with confusion; there was _pain,_ pain everywhere and yet nowhere, all at the same time.

Suddenly, she realized—it was her hands.

They ached and burned within the cotton gloves. She tried to move her fingers, but the motion caused even more pain, and she was suddenly struck with the impulsive need to rip away the gloves. But she couldn't.

Blindly, she stumbled out of bed and into the dim light of her receiving room. Even in that light, she could see the spots of blood on the white cotton that covered her swollen fingers. Panic gripped her throat.

Something drove her from her room and out into the corridor. Working the door hurt acutely, but it was cooler outside, and it cleared her head enough that she could walk without wobbling. _Cor. Cor will help_.

Yes, she thought—by waking Cor, she could avoid all sorts of uncomfortable questions that the others might ask; he would wonder, of course, but ask nothing if she wasn't prepared to give an answer.

_Besides_, she thought miserably, _he will make me feel better_.

But, as much as she wanted to see him, she was not prepared for the rush of emotion that would hit her when, having fumbled his door open, she saw him sitting at his desk with a stack of papers and humming the same sad tune as before.

"Aravis?" he said, looking up. "What's wrong?"

Aravis burst into tears.

He stood up so quickly that the flimsy wooden chair he had been seated in tipped over, but he was nearly at her side before it even hit the floor. "Bloody _hell_—Aravis—oh, _bloody bleeding hell_—shh, shh, it's all right. Here. Sit down."

Aravis plunked down into the settee Cor indicated. "It—hurts so badly, C-Cor—"

Cor peeled the first glove off, ignoring the squeals of pain she could not muffle. "Oh, _Aravis_…what have they done to you?"

She looked down. Her hand, once dark and strong, looked like a piece of flayed meat. "The—s-salve…Khurshid said to put it on, that it would help my hands…"

Cor swore viciously. "Bastard. It's done more harm than good." He peeled the second glove off. This hand looked no better. "Hell."

He got up and clattered around the room, coming back with a decanter and a bowl. "This will sting," he said, pouring the pungent whiskey into the bowl and diluting it with a bit of boiled water. "But we have to clean them."

Aravis held her breath and let him submerge her burning hands in the strong-smelling concoction. It seared, but he held her hands in it as she wept unashamedly. "I'm sorry," she gasped the second he released her.

"Don't apologize," he said firmly, patting away the blood and fluid with a cloth. "_Khurshid _should be apologizing_._"

_I can't tell him_!

"I was stupid. I shouldn't have done it."

"You were trying to please him. It was a noble thing. Stupid, yes, but noble." Cor sighed and got up. "I think there are still bandages in my satchel from when I was ill. I'll go get them."

He disappeared into his bedchamber, leaving Aravis alone in dead silence for a long minute. Her fingers throbbed and oozed fluid onto the cloth.

At last, he came back with a roll of white bandages. "Poor Aravis," he sighed, pulling a stool up next to her feet. "This place has been rotten for you. Everything about it."

_You don't even know the half of it_. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he tenderly bound each hand in the soft fabric, taking care to cover every inch of ragged flesh. "Yes," she whispered.

Cor frowned over one of her hands. "I can't wait until I can get you out," he said fiercely. "This is not a good place for you to be. There."

She sniffled pathetically as he poured her a splash of whiskey and made her drink it to help with the pain. "T—thank you—Cor—"

Cor sat back on the stool again and watched her nurse the liquor with one bandaged hand. "I hate seeing you in pain. It makes _me_ hurt."

She didn't respond.

"Come on, Aravis," he said, wiping one of her tears away with his thumb. "You were supposed to make a joke about childbirth."

The weight of her shroud was so heavy, though, that she could do nothing but weep silently. Here he was, sitting before her good and healthy for what was now one of the last times. She would not see him wed, or crowned king, or made a father, or laid out in state someday far in the future. The pain was unbearable, even more than the ache in her hands.

"Why can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Aravis looked at him and saw the same pain she felt reflected in his sad blue eyes. "I can't," she burst out.

"You don't trust me?"

"I _do_, Cor, with all my heart! But now you have to trust _me_."

He was quiet for a long time. "I do, Aravis. Of course I do. I'm sorry."

She nodded, and he got up from the stool to sit beside her on the settee. "Just trust me," she whispered.

"Always."

He clumsily wiped more of her tears away and pressed soothing kisses to her hair and forehead, and Aravis closed her eyes for a moment. "I should really go back to bed," she murmured into his chest.

"Let me come with you."

"You don't have to do that."

"What if you need something in the middle of the night? I'll sit in your receiving chambers, at least until I know you're asleep."

"Yes, all right," she whispered, afraid she was going to burst into tears again.

He nodded and went to gather up a few papers. "Come on, then. I'll help you."

Aravis slipped her hand under his arm, and he led her slowly back to her room in the dark coolness of the corridor. _I hope Khurshid doesn't find out_, she thought desperately. At the same time, she clung to Cor's arm like he was saving her from drowning.

"I'll be right outside," he told her as she climbed into bed. "If you need antigen, just shout."

"Thank you, Cor."

He leaned down and kissed the small dent under her left eye. "Just rest."

She nodded and he moved from the room, leaving her door ajar just enough that she could see him settle down on the settee with his papers. It was a comfortable, homey scene that was a stark contrast to the ragged pain of her hands; the distant rustle of paper and the crackle of fire quickly lulled her into a shallow sleep.


	64. Chapter Sixty-Four

_Chapter Sixty-Four_

When Aravis woke the next morning, her hands still ached and burned, but after she removed the bandages she saw that the awful ulcerations had begun to scab over, leaving her hands looking diseased but at least moderately better than the flayed look they had borne the night before. She bathed them carefully in a bowl of whiskey and warm water as Cor had done, gritting her teeth as the liquor bit into the open sores, and when her maids came to dress her, she had them fetch her a pair of soft kid gloves that she could wear discretely under her long sleeves. Khurshid met her at breakfast and kissed her gloved fingertips, but she smiled at him through the pain, determined that the only weakness he would see was that which was intentional.

"I have a favor to ask you, Cor," she said later that day over the edge of her book.

He sat near his window, bathed in the pale light of the winter afternoon sun. "What's that?" he asked, looking up from his letter.

"When we leave"—the words turned to ash on her tongue—"could we take my cousin Elnaz along?"

Cor raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for?"

She knew she had to play it carefully here; too much concern for Elnaz's well being, and her decision to marry Khurshid would stretch the imagination. "She gets quite lonely here," she said cautiously. "I think a visit to Anvard would do her good."

He eyed her in that perceptive way of his. "I won't marry her, Aravis."

"You hardly know her."

"I wouldn't marry her anyway."

"Come now. She's quite pretty, you know."

"I might have known that _if she'd ever shown me her face_."

Aravis sat up and glared at him over the back of the settee. "You know full well she can't, Cor. It isn't done."

"_You_ did it."

"I also ran away from home and disobeyed my father's command. I hardly think I am the model of Calormene behavior. Cor, Elnaz is a Calormene maiden—she might as well be a different species for the time being. But nothing you say will make her unveil or speak her mind. You must leave that to me."

"And you want me to bring her to Anvard why…?"

"Because it is best for her. You will be good to her—better than any other man has been."

Cor watched her quietly. "You're doing it again."

She was taken aback. "W—what?"

"You're trying to hide something from me."

"Yes," she answered after a brief pause. "But you said you were going to trust me."

"I do trust you. That doesn't mean I don't worry about you."

"You needn't. You should worry about taking care of _yourself_—you must keep yourself safe. That is the most important thing."

"No, it's not," he said, and turned back to his letters.

Aravis sighed. She simultaneously wanted to kiss and strangle him, stupid noble man. Instead, she closed her book and got up. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck as she quietly left the room, but he said nothing, and his silence stung as bitterly as a slap.

But, she reminded herself as she swept along the corridor, clutching the book she held to her chest, none of this was about her. It was never about her, of course, now it was entirely about Cor, every effort, every action they took. They were all disposable, in the grand scheme of things; Cor was the only one who was irreplaceable, the only one whose loss would affect the lives of each and every man and woman living in Archenland.

That was why, when she slammed the scarlet cord onto the table in front of Ram, she thought only of the danger Cor had been in the day before. "You should have warned me," she hissed as the big ginger man sat forward and inspected the relic.

"Where did you find this?" he asked curiously.

"Tied to Inga's reins yesterday. It was just the two of us—they could have slaughtered us easily, no trouble at all."

"A warning."

"Yes. They have us under their thumb, Ram. And they want us to squirm."

"This is good," he answered, standing and pacing to the small window set into the wall of his cell-like chamber.

"Good?" Aravis laughed disbelievingly. "No, no, this is _far_ from good…"

Ram chuckled a little. "Ah, my lady. So wise and yet still so young."

She resented the implications of his words and did not bother to keep her annoyance hidden.

"This _is_ good," he went on. "The Finnii are nervous. There has been no announcement from the castle that the viscount's son is to marry. And yet they have his contract. They know he is bound to wed and neutralize the threat you pose, but they fear that he will be unable to fulfill his requirements with the right timing."

"So?" Aravis burst out, hot with frustration.

"They want to draw us out of the castle as soon as possible, for they cannot attack us directly within these walls—it would raise too much suspicion."

"Suspicion? The death of the crown prince will raise suspicion in any circumstance."

"You are correct, milady, but what would raise the ire of the royal city more: the death of the heir on a lonely country road at the hands of a few bandits, or the cold-blooded murder of the prince in his bed in the home of a southern lord?"

She was silent.

"You see, milady, they grow restless waiting in the snow. They are trying to lure His Royal Highness and the rest of us out of the castle and into the western wilds, where we will be isolated and lacking one of His Highness's staunchest advocates. Do you understand? This is why you are important—you have made us _ready for them_."

Aravis nodded glumly. "Khurshid says he will make the announcement on _Jadida Sa'id_."

"We must keep His Highness here until late January. Let him stay through your wedding. The more restless the Finnii become, the more prone they will be to make mistakes. The thaw will aid us in giving them the slip."

"Meanwhile," Aravis said, "I must keep Khurshid happy."

"At any cost."

She nodded, lips thin. "Yes."

"And we will reevaluate when the date draws nearer."

She nodded again. "Please keep the cord. I can't risk my maids finding it."

"I will dispose of it." Ram reached for it, but paused as he tucked it into his pocket. "Milady, what happened to your hands?"

"Oh, that." She looked at her gloved fingers. "Khurshid asked that I apply a salve to soften the calluses I've gotten from riding, but it…well, it hurt rather a lot."

"May I?"

She held a hand out, and Ram gingerly removed the glove and unwrapped the thin bandages. With a practiced eye, he inspected the ulcers on the back of her hand and sniffed them carefully.

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "Witch's Piss."

"Excuse me?"

"The salve you put on—it's called Witch's Piss. In small doses, it is an effective corrosive, used for warts or small growths on livestock. Who put it on for you?"

"One of my maids," she answered.

"I see she applied it all over your hands," he went on, "even the unaffected places. See how only the back of your hand and the sides of your fingers are harmed? The skin there was too sensitive for the salve."

Aravis flushed. "I—I've been washing it with whiskey."

"Yes, keep doing that. It will keep the sores clean. Do try putting some of the ointment His Highness purchased for you in Muthill on before bed, too. It will help with the pain."

"I will. Thank you."

Ram nodded and replaced the bandage, slipping the glove on over it when he had finished. "Someday, milady, the kingdom will know—"

"What I've done for it," she finished for him, sighing. "I know."

* * *

Cor did not speak to her for the rest of the day. It hurt, but Aravis tried not to let it dig too deep—he was nearly as upset about the whole thing as she was; he just didn't know it. At least his silence was the quietness of self-preservation, not the bitter coldness of a wounded pride. _That_ Aravis was far too familiar with. He didn't ignore her now, merely kept to himself throughout dinner and went to bed alone. Aravis played a few games of tumblers over bitter Calormene coffee with Hana, Janey, Findora, and Ragna, but she couldn't rid herself of the guilt that weighed on her shoulders like an anvil, its pressure nearly suffocating over the already heavy burden of the task she must complete if Cor were to have a fighting chance at living.

When she went to bed, she put a pillow over her head and drifted off to sleep in the muffled stillness of her room. It was an awkward way of sleeping, to be sure; she woke midway through the night gasping for air with one arm tingling from having been thrown over her head. As she lay on her back massaging her prickling limb, though, she became suddenly aware that she hadn't woken herself.

Finally, there came another tap on her door. It was exceedingly quiet and shy, as though the knocker was loath to wake her. Her first thought was, of course, that it was Hana—_poor timid thing_—and she threw aside the covers and tiptoed across the cold stone floor to the door.

"Cor?"

He stood just outside with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy trousers, shoulders hunched forward. Aravis couldn't see his face in the shadows of the dark room.

"What's wrong?" she asked, fear gripping her throat so tightly she nearly couldn't breathe.

He shrugged, and, though her breath came easier now, her fear was replaced with a deep, almost physical ache; she knew instinctively that he'd had a nightmare—and a bad one, at that.

"Oh dear," she whispered. "Poor Cor."

His head hung between his shoulders like that of a beaten pup, and Aravis felt a rush of sympathy for him so sudden and powerful that it startled her. She reached up and took his face in her hands, the skin of his cheeks hot and damp under her fingers; fear and exhaustion were evident in the tangible lines around his mouth and eyes.

"Come in," she said softly, wiping away the tears that felt cool to her touch. "Sit with me a bit. I'll make a pot of tea."

Cor came meekly, trailing by her hand like an obedient lapdog. Aravis kicked the door shut and let him get situated on the edge of her bed while she hastily removed the cozy from the half-empty teapot on her table and slid it into the fire to warm. She could see his face a bit better in the low light of her bedchamber, but it did not make her feel any better—his eyes were red, standing out starkly against the odd paleness of his face. His expression was carefully blank, but, having watched that very look play across her own face in the mirror, she knew that it hid a world of blazing terror.

She clambered up onto the bed next to him and put her arms around him. He leaned willingly, silently, against her. "It was bad," she said into his hair. It wasn't a question.

After a moment, Cor nodded wordlessly, and she felt him reach up and cover his face with one hand. He trembled very slightly.

He was curled up like a child against her, and Aravis squeezed him as tightly as she could. Another wave of feeling—fear? sympathy? _wrath_? she couldn't even begin to tell—rose up inside her as she kissed the back of his head, all she could do while in the grip of such overwhelming emotions. "You're safe now," she murmured. "You know that." _Of course he is. I would protect him to my last breath_.

He nodded again, but Aravis knew the reality of her words would take time to sink in to his mind, confused and contorted as it was with terror and the fog of sleep. Nightmares were no ordinary dreams, after all. The religion of her fathers had taught for centuries that dark dreams were the bird-god's way of communicating its hidden desires to its fleshly servants, and as such held great power over the human mind. They were not easily endured, nor so quickly forgotten.

Aravis shifted on the bed and laid a gentle pressure on Cor's shoulders. At first he resisted, as she knew he would. "Trust me, Cor," she whispered, and he finally relaxed enough to pillow his head in her lap, wrapping an arm around her knee in a sorry attempt at an embrace. She reached down and stroked his hair. He was trying to restrain his trembling by tightening all his muscles, and she let her fingers trail gently across the curve of his ear and through the downy hair at the nape of his neck, just as she might do for an unbroken yearling. She wanted him to trust her—_desperately_—in every sense of the word, but, even as she touched his hair, his brow, the curve of his nose, he lay tense against her, and the arm that he had wrapped around her leg was hard. Sighing, Aravis leaned down to kiss his cheek and heard him muffle a sniffle or two.

They really were a pitiful sight, she thought, _shush_ing him gently. Here she sat in the dim light of her bedchamber, cradling the future king of Archenland in her arms as he fought his inner demons, doing mental battle with the wraiths of Nim and Brynwen and Arsheesh and the slavers just as she had to fight that of her father. But how unfair was it, really? It was not unusual for a woman such as her to struggle with the memories like she did; in fact, it was somewhat expected. But for a man? Unthinkable.

She realized as she traced his hairline with a light touch that she was humming the tune she had heard from him just the other day. The name of the sad melody still evaded her, as did the words, but the notes slipped from her throat as easily as if she had written them herself. He was finally beginning to relax, anyway, the very faint trembling in his bones easing up as she ran her fingers across his furrowed brow.

When the tea on the hearth began to bubble, Aravis slipped gently from under him and rescued the pot from the coals, pouring the hot brew into a cup to which she added a spoonful of sugar and a healthy splash of whiskey. "It's hot," she said, coming to Cor's side of the bed and putting it into his hands as he slowly sat up. "But drink it down to the dregs."

Cor nursed the drink carefully, watched watching her over the rim of his cup with big blue eyes as she went back to her side of the bed and adjusted the blankets so they covered his legs and bare feet. Aravis returned the gaze steadily as she settled in next to him again. "Any better?"

He shrugged.

"You don't have to say anything," she said gently as he opened his mouth with reluctance. "You'll stay with me tonight, either way. And don't argue—I won't send you back to that empty room like this."

He closed his mouth, looking exhausted, but there was a distinct softening around his lips that Aravis took to be a wholehearted attempt at a smile. She took the empty cup out of his hands and set it aside, then moved back to his side and pushed the hair back away from his forehead. "What do you think?" she asked him gently, brushing her fingertips along the silver scar that ran nearly perpendicular to his hairline. "Do you want to try to lay back?"

Cor nodded tiredly, and Aravis arranged pillows for him to relax into, far from the edge of the mattress. As he laid back and settled in, she closed the curtains around the bed, leaving them open only a crack on one side so the low light of the glowing coals would keep them from sleeping in complete darkness.

"Comfortable?" she asked, tugging the blankets up over his shoulder.

He nodded, his eyes glittering in the light between the pillows and the blankets.

"Good. I'll stay awake until you've fallen asleep."

Cor took a deep breath, caught her bandaged hand as she caressed his cheek, and said in a hoarse voice, "Thank you, Aravis."

She smiled. "You're welcome. Now try to get some sleep. Everything will look better in the morning."

He nodded again and closed his eyes. Aravis tucked the blankets over his shoulder and settled down next to him, propping her chin up on her hand and tucking the fingers of the other under his empty palm.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. When he finally did, though, Aravis held her breath for a moment—but yes, his chest rose slowly and deeply, and the hand that held her fingers was dry and loose. She could see by the light of the glowing coals that the deep furrows between his brows had smoothed out, too; he looked calm and unperturbed, and Aravis felt a desire that welled up from somewhere deep inside to keep him hat way, to shield him from the pain and heartache he would certainly endure before his year was up.

_I can't_, she thought, slipping her hand out from under his and turning over to try to get some sleep herself; _I can't, but I can try._

* * *

Aravis came out of sleep like a fish is reeled out of water: slowly, inexorably, and with no little confusion. She had been sleeping deeply, her cheek hot and tingly from having leaned on it all night, and her limbs felt like they were miles away and full of sand. Blinking, she lay in the warmth of the nest that had formed around her, gazing up at the velvet ceiling of her bed, illuminated gently as it was by dim light. It must be morning, or near to it, she thought vaguely. The source of her waking was becoming more obvious now as she wrapped cords around her consciousness and hauled it to the surface; someone's big, rough hand was tracing circles on the sensitive skin of her inner arm, and that hand was connected to an arm that ran along her shoulder and under her head and was attached to a small furnace…

"Morning," said Cor as she turned onto her side, trying to make sense of the situation. "I thought you'd died for a bit, you slept so soundly."

"_Hm_," she replied groggily.

Gently, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest. "My hand is quite numb now."

She rubbed her face against the worn fabric of his tunic as he flexed the arm she had been laying on. "Wha' time 'sit?"

"Does it matter?" he answered.

_No_, said a tiny voice in the back of her mind. Aravis was too tired to resist it, so she closed her eyes again and let herself relax, sink luxuriously into the sleepy warmth of Cor's arms; they were so tangled up together with sheets and nightclothes that she couldn't tell where her body ended and his began. He stroked her hair with a gentle hand.

After a long silence, he said, "Do you hear that?"

Aravis listened. "What?"

"It's raining."

She shifted so as to clear her other ear. Sure enough, she heard the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the eaves; they tinkled against her window like tiny musicians. "So it is."

"That means spring is coming," he said into her ear. "Spring means _home_."

"Spring means work," Aravis replied, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

"Aravis…!"

"It's true! We ought to enjoy our time here while we can, Cor."

"I was, until a minute ago," he complained, tugging her back down.

She rolled over and looked at him. "What time do you think it is?"

"I dunno," he answered with a sigh. "Perhaps nine?"

"We should get up. I'm not keen on being whipped."

"Whipped?" he asked in confusion as she got up and clambered out of bed.

"I have Calormene maids," she answered matter-of-factly. "In Calormen, if a maiden is found in bed with a man who is not her husband, she is whipped by her maids before she is taken to her guardian for punishment."

"That's _barbaric_."

"It's a way for the maids to prove their innocence. Otherwise they could be executed for letting the affair happen."

Cor looked sick to his stomach, but Aravis tried to ignore him. She had sworn off Calormene marriage practice long ago, but it seemed silly to try to maintain that boycott now. It was becoming disturbingly easy to slip back into the role; she had been taught it, raised in it, _born_ for it, and it would be so simple to step back and let the stifling veil muffle her voice again.

"I'll go, then," he said as she began to brush out her hair. "Wouldn't want your maids thinking we're having an affair."

Aravis had to laugh at the tone of voice he said 'affair' in, and he came around to where she sat in front of her streaked mirror, grasping her shoulder with one hand. "You must be feeling better," she said, looking up at him.

"How could I not, when you took such sweet care of me?"

She sighed with no small amount of grief as he bent down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. "I just don't want you to let your nightmares bleed into reality, Cor."

"I won't. I like reality far too much."

He squeezed her shoulder and left her to it, closing the door softly behind him. Aravis stared at her mirror and her own lying face gazed accusatorily back.

* * *

The next night, Aravis, who was not that soundly asleep, heard a familiar rapping sound on the door. Willingly, happily, she opened her arms to him, and she spent that night—and the next, and the next—with her face buried in his shoulder. She knew it was foolish—_dangerous_, really—but nightmares did not plague her when Cor snored nearby. Only once did her dreams turn blood red and dark, but she was roused from sleep before the dream descended into terror, and Cor kissed her face and said that she had been whimpering under her breath.

Besides, she could tolerate Khurshid and his cold, vise-like hands during the day when she knew Cor and his gentle jokes would be there for her when the torches were extinguished for the night. Every time she began to doubt herself, whenever her courage flagged, Cor would look at her with his big blue eyes and a bolt of understanding would pass between them. He who bore the marks of the slaver's lash on his back knew what it was like to see one's destruction on the horizon, to proffer one's identity in hands that would soon be bound in chains; only he could minister to her aching soul, even though he didn't know why.

_I'm getting far too attached_, she thought on occasion, feeling his golden hair slip between her fingers or the sensation of his hand moving across her back. _Counterproductive. I cannot become reliant for strength upon the very person I aim to save by sending him away._

_But_, she would then think, _I am not reliant on him. I merely enjoy him. _

And it was true. In some ways, perhaps it would have been easier for her if they had fought, had found some stupid excuse to row: her anger was always reliable. She could live on her anger for months; it would feed her, give her purpose. But Cor, _stupid, stupid_ Cor, was perfect. It seemed to her that by sharing a bed, they began to share more—he was more forgiving, more good-natured with her, and she in turn was gentler and more patient with him; every time they made eye contact, Aravis had the sensation that he knew what she was thinking. It was an immensely satisfying feeling, and it did not frighten her that her guard was further down than ever when she lay beside him in the dark, giggling at a silly joke or planning out the new riding greens that needed to be constructed in the palace gardens. Why should she be frightened, after all? Cor was mysterious—she knew his heart but not his thoughts (or was it the other way around?)—but he was not dangerous; his big hands never lifted towards her in anger, never crushed her arms in frustration.

So, when Aravis awoke the damp, dreary morning of the fifteenth to find her bed empty and a streak of scarlet cloth hanging from the wardrobe, she faced her fate with a death knell ringing in her head. It was _Jadida Sa'id_, the Feast of Days, the end of her days.

The maids must have come in while she slept, she surmised with a sigh, getting up, and startled Cor enough to send him fleeing to his own chambers as soon as they were gone. The scarlet cloth was pure silk, and it slipped between her fingers as she touched it. But it was more than just cloth: cut from the same bolt were a short tunic, embroidered with gold thread and inlaid with emeralds, and a pair of flowing trousers, cut to sit high on her waist and billow out sensuously until they came to an abrupt end at the small ankle, where she would wear gold bangles that would jingle above the tips of her pointed slippers when she walked. This was the _ma'vahda vidyi_.

Ironic, Aravis thought wryly, looking with distaste at the articles that called up so many bad memories, that Calormene women were expected to cover themselves to the last inch so as to keep shelter from men's roving eyes every day except for festival days, wherein it was the norm to wear the costumes of their forefathers, the bare midriffs and gaudy bangles remnants of the days when the Calormenes were naught but desert-dwelling nomads.

She turned away from the outfit with a shiver. Khurshid might be her betrothed, but he did not own her yet, and she would not wear the _ma'vahda vidyi_ if she could avoid it. The last time she had worn one was at her own farewell banquet in her father's tarkh the night before she left to return to Anvard, and the stares of the tarkaans and tarkheenas who disapproved of her barbarian ways still burned.

"Did you see your gift?" Khurshid asked her when, dressed in a simple green gown, she took her place beside him at the breakfast table.

"I did, my liege," she answered with a careful smile. "It was lovely."

"I hope to see you wear it tonight at the festivities."

_Hope_. _Not an order_! She smiled again but did not answer.

Such hope was short-lived. As he took her arm to escort her from the great hall after they had finished eating, Khurshid brought her to his study and closed the door with a careful _click_ that made Aravis's blood run cold.

"My beautiful lady betrothed," he said, leaning in to kiss her as he had done so many times already. Aravis smiled pleasantly but, as she was used to, turned her face at the last moment so his moist lips landed on her cheek. His lips thinned. "Tonight I announce our betrothal," he went on, motioning for her to sit. She did not. "I had hoped that you would take the opportunity to present yourself as a suitable Calormene bride, wearing the _ma'vahda vidyi_ in a suitable fashion."

"I never said I wouldn't wear it," Aravis fibbed desperately.

Khurshid tented his fingers together in front of his velvet tunic. It was a dark blue, a color that would have flattered his trim figure and dark coloring had he worn a less forbidding expression. "Ah," he said quietly. "Herein lies the problem. I take offense less at your reluctance to wear the costume and more at your chosen manner of expressing this reluctance.

"You see, my lady betrothed, I ask very little in a wife. I expect you to be well groomed, well comported, and to heed my word. Do you understand?"

She dipped a small curtsy.

"My every edict comes forth from much thought and consultation with my advisors," Khurshid went on, pacing to and fro in front of the fire. "When I utter commands, I expect that you obey them promptly. I do not do the work of your chambermaids, so why should you do the work of my counselors?"

"Wise words, my lord betrothed," she murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"Good. Then you will see that I will not brook such sullen passivity again." He strode to her and forced her chin up, his dark eyes blazing into hers. "I would have you wear the _ma'vahda vidyi, _my lady betrothed."

Aravis tried to nod, she really did—but instead of a meek 'yes, my lord,' what slipped from between her lips was a recalcitrant, "But, my lord betrothed, do you not think it best to present me as an Archenlandian to your people? They might take more of a liking to me then."

Khurshid stared down into her face as though struggling to comprehend her disobedience. Words failed him, and he pushed her down into one of his high-backed armchairs. "Do not argue with me, my lady betrothed."

"I find the _ma'vahda vidyi _very uncomfortable," she protested.

"The ways of the barbarian bitch are _very _deeply engrained in you, my lady betrothed," he hissed. "You defy me at every turn—denying me your maidenhood with one breath and asserting your will over mine with the next."

His next words were lost to Aravis's ears, for they were accompanied by a sharp slap that came unexpectedly across her open mouth. She held her hands over her throbbing lips for a long moment, gasping shallowly as Khurshid's hot breath rolled in waves across her face and neck.

"It is time you learn your place, my lady betrothed," he scoffed. "No wonder you approach your twenty-first year with no suitors vying for your laborer's hand."

_I deserved that_, she thought miserably, dabbing her lower lip with the back of her hand. _I played with fire. I saw the line and crossed it, I provoked the beast_.

Khurshid knelt before her and held her hands tight in her lap. "Look at me," he said gently. "My lady betrothed, I do nothing you do not drive me to do. This marriage will be tolerable only if you put aside your barbarian pride and take your place behind me as my wife."

She nodded mutely.

"Good. So you will wear the _ma'vahda vidyi_?"

Again she nodded.

"Most excellent. I give you leave to go."

Aravis had to wrestle her hands from his before she could stand. "You are too kind, my lord betrothed."

He smiled and lifted her chin with one finger. "I am glad to hear it. Give us a kiss, my lady betrothed."

She hesitated, thinking desperately of any way to avoid it—the thought of Khurshid's lips, hands, touching her made her feel ill—but his expression darkened, and she held her breath and let him kiss her swollen lips. He could not command her to have passion, though, so she stood stock still as he gummed her mouth, neither pulling away nor giving any indication of engagement in the moment. It was all she could stand to do.

"Go," he said at last, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "I shall see you tonight."

"Yes, my lord betrothed."

She fled the room as quickly as she dared, her lips aching with only a fraction of the pain her heart felt.


	65. Chapter Sixty-Five

_A/N: Thanks for all your sweet birthday wishes, everyone!_

_I should have put this warning at the end of last chapter, but better late than never—things are going to get a bit dark starting soon. There aren't any trigger warnings for this chapter, but do be aware._

_Also. Uh. This may or may not be a massively long chapter. You're welcome? ~SH_

_Chapter Sixty-Five_

All Aravis wanted to do upon leaving Khurshid's study was to hide in her chambers, preferably under the covers of her bed where she could cry in peace. As she rounded the corner near the staircase, though, she nearly collided with Hana and Janey, who were flushed and giggly and looking very intent on reaching their destination.

"Where are you going?" Janey shrieked, seizing Aravis's hand in her small ones.

"Back to my chambers," Aravis answered uncomfortably.

Hana looked aghast. "Whatever for? Aren't you coming to watch?"

"Watch what?"

"Prince Corin," Janey said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He said he's willing to go a round with anyone who wants to challenge him."

Aravis groaned. "Is he drunk already?"

"Only a wee bit," said Janey.

"And you're condoning it?" Aravis asked Hana.

Hana looked uncomfortable, but she said evenly, "It isn't my business what Prince Corin does with his liquor."

Aravis flushed with annoyance, but felt a distinct sense of relief as the prickle of indignation muted her fear. "We need to stop him."

"Well, come on," Janey giggled. "We'll miss the first round, otherwise!"

Aravis had no choice; Janey was holding onto her hand with an iron grip and hurrying down to the courtyard, Hana on her other side. They were certainly not the only ones to find the idea of one of the princes showing off his renowned right fist exciting, for the cold, damp courtyard was beginning to fill with servants of all rank and stature. Janey pushed through a clump of sooty-faced charmaids to the makeshift ring, where Corin stood rubbing bear grease onto his bare chest; the smell combined with the cold air made Aravis's nose run.

"You're drunk, Corin," she said, shaking free of Janey's grasp. "It's not too late—you can stop this now—"

"I'm not _that_ drunk," Corin retorted. "I've got my wits about me, y'know, 'n that's all I need."

"You'll be beaten bloody."

"I hardly think so."

"Oh?"

"Have you seen my first opponent?"

He pointed. Somehow, Aravis knew before she turned who it would be, so she wasn't surprised when she saw Cor pulling his tunic off over his head as he approached. "Hand me the grease, brother," he was saying.

"Oh, _brilliant_," she sighed. "Are you drunk, too?"

Cor grinned when he saw her and held out his hand for the stained tin Corin held. "Not at all."

She rolled her eyes as he scooped out a handful of brown grease and began to rub it onto his chest and shoulders. "Don't either of you injure or get injured, understand? His lordship will be quite displeased if you miss the festivities tonight."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Corin answered.

Aravis watched him massaging the thick cream into his skin until it glistened; the idea was to make his flesh slick so it was harder to grab and less prone to injury. "Be careful," she said gently.

"I will." He began to unfold the roll of cloth Corin had tossed him; Aravis recognized it as part of the set of bandages she had given Corin for Christmas. "But Aravis—are you all right?"

"Of course I am," she answered briskly. "Let me help you with that."

"You're not. What happened to your lip?"

She began to wind the cloth around Cor's big hands so none of the blows he landed would split his knuckles. "I banged it against a goblet at breakfast."

He looked unconvinced, and she sighed, changing the subject to one that was no more tolerable. "The viscount wants me to wear the _ma'vahda vidyi_," she said in a very low voice. "My maids brought it this morning."

"I wondered why they were there that early. 'S a good thing we had the curtains shut—I had to hold my breath the whole time so they wouldn't hear me."

"I don't want to wear it."

"Why not?"

"It makes me feel conspicuous. He and Elnaz and I will be the only nobles wearing Calormene garb tonight, I can assure you."

"I'll wear my _nimruzan_, then," he answered matter-of-factly, flexing his hands experimentally. "Sash and all. It'll be like a palace costume ball!"

"Really?"

"Sure. What's the harm?"

"Only if you want to."

"If it makes you feel better, then I do."

She had to smile a little bit. "Thank you."

He smiled back at her with his clear blue eyes. "All I ask for in return is that you pick me to be your champion this round."

"Hold yer horses," Corin slurred, the liquor bringing a slight Archenlandian brogue to his voice. "Why do _you_ get ter have 'er? Boxing was _my_ idea. Pick one of yer brides, Cor!"

"A bad idea, all around! If I pick one of my brides, they will think I've made up my mind. Aravis is the natural choice."

"I pick _both_ of you," Aravis broke in. "How about that for a change? No hard feelings and I win no matter the outcome."

The twins laughed out loud and shook hands with each other, apparently agreeing on the compromise. "Very well," said Corin, giving her a deep bow and planting a sloppy kiss on the bandage that covered the top of her right hand. "I s'pose t'was stupid to make the decision wi'out you."

"Very," she answered with mock gravity as he spun away and called for Ram.

She offered Cor her hand next. With a knowing look, he turned it palm-side up and kissed the patch of bare skin between the bandage and her fingers, his unshaven mouth tickling her. "But you really want _me_ to win, don't you?" he asked with a wink.

"Of course," she said matter-of-factly.

Corin was calling for Cor, and Aravis went back to stand with Hana and Janey. The courtyard was crowded now, full of strapping grooms and charboys who pushed to the front while older men and women watched with mild curiosity from the corners and edges. Dar and all his men were nearby, as well, and Ragna and Findora had come alongside them, giggling nervously at the sight of both twins naked from the waist up.

"I think Prince Corin will win," Janey said as Corin stretched his famous arms. His muscles bulged out, glistening in the weak sunlight. "Just _look_—"

"_I_ think Prince Cor'll win," Ragna interrupted archly. "'Ow can 'e not? 'E's the high prince, af'er all…an' look at 'im, so tall 'n trim!"

"Tall and trim has naught to do with it," Hana told them. "It all has to do with who's the nimblest on his feet."

"Prince Corin is a wee bit drunk," Findora said in a tiny voice. "Might'n't that make him wobbly-like?"

Janey frowned. "Hadn't thought of that."

"Who do _you_ think will win?"

Cor was adjusting the drawstring of his trousers and pulling his boots off so he could fight in his bare feet. It seemed very strange to Aravis that the hands he was shaking out to get ready for the match had spent the night curled up in hers; for a long, eerie moment, she felt caught between two times, seeing past and present, Shasta and Cor, at the same time. No one but her, she felt confident, could see the similarities between the skinny, frightened slave boy and the future king whose scars were almost invisible between grease and muscle.

It took Aravis a long moment to realize Hana had asked _her _who she thought was going to win; she looked over and saw the four women watching her expectantly. Hana was biting her lips hard to keep from smiling. "What?" she said, flustered.

"Who d'you fink is goin' ter win?" Ragna asked slowly, carefully enunciating her mispronunciations.

"Oh—er—I don't know."

"You must have a guess," Janey encouraged.

"I'm not allowed to root for one over the other. They're both my champions."

Janey snorted. "This is hardly a tournament, Lady Aravis! Besides—if they're both your champions, you should be allowed to pick a favorite. All mistresses do."

Aravis looked back at the two, frowning. Ram was inspecting their open palms for any evidence of hidden implements, and somewhere else she heard a hoarse voice calling for bets. "I think Cor will," she said carefully. Corin was pulling at the bit, nearly frothing at the mouth in his eagerness to begin, but she knew that _somewhere_, deep beneath that drunken exterior, he knew that to knock the crown prince down in front of such a large crowd would not mean well for his brother's reputation as ruler. He would fight spectacularly, getting a few hits in here and there, but let Cor get the last strike and claim a victory. "Cor will win, but he will concede the match to let Corin take on the others."

"I 'ope 'ey don't injure each other," Ragna squealed as Ram turned to address the noisy crowd. Janey shushed her so they could hear Ram's voice boom above the rustle of the restless crowd, declaring Corin's challenge and announcing Cor's identity as the first challenger.

As soon as Ram stepped away, the crowd surged forward around the twins as they shook out their hands and danced around each other in those crucial first few moments of the match. Aravis was pushed this way and that, but she looked for Ram and saw him standing watchfully nearby, his arms folded but loose and ready to swing outward if there was any danger.

Corin made the first jab, but Cor sidestepped it easily, to the enjoyment of those in the audience who cheered for the crown prince. His head was low, ducked behind his arms, and his hands were loose, just as he'd been taught. He weaved to and fro.

_Thwunk_.

Cor made contact with Corin's chest. The initial impact of his fist against bone made the muscle in his right arm leap and quiver, and his shoulders widened as he buried his head into the flurry of the offense. Corin grunted, and Aravis pushed her hands against her mouth with glee as he stumbled back a step before returning the blows. He had underestimated Cor! They were no longer boys, and Cor was strong and quick now.

Cor had his arm tight around Corin's shoulders and was laying steadily into him, but then Corin freed his fist and brought it down soundly on Cor's left eye. They broke apart, staggering, the crowd yelping with excitement. At a bark from Ram, the twins went back to circling each other, spitting blood and scraping their golden hair back from their sodden brows.

Then again, they were at it, tangled up in a ball where only fists and shoulders and strong pale backs were visible. Cor rained four heavy hits on Corin's ribs before they broke apart long enough to dash the sweat out of their eyes. Again and again they went at it, hammering blows loud enough to make even Aravis wince now and again. Neither faltered, neither stepped up the attack. They were nearly wrestling now, locking their arms and legs and making loud, angry noises as the center of balance went back and forth.

It finally occurred to Aravis after a long moment of watching the sweat bead up on Cor's greased, straining shoulders that they were both cheating. Both men were trying to throw the match in the other's favor: neither wanted to lose, but they didn't want to win at the expense of the other, either.

The crowd gasped as, shouting and swearing, the twins tumbled onto the cobblestones, throwing a few punches here and there as they tried to pin each other to the ground, thereby winning by mere weight. She pushed through the crowd, ignoring Hana and Janey's calls for her.

"Call the match," she said to Ram.

Her command caught him off guard, and he leaned a ginger-encircled ear down to her level. "Come again?"

"Call the match!"

"What—

"Declare a draw."

"My lady—"

"Just do it, Ram. Look at them. They're brothers, you can't ask either of them to publicly humiliate the other just to win a boxing match."

"They're hardly boxing now, anyway."

"My point exactly."

Ram nodded, raised his hands, and bellowed "_Match_!" at the top of his lungs. The crowd went quiet, waiting for his pronouncement. Cor, who had Corin on his back but looked ready to fall over himself, looked up in confusion, and Ram lifted his arm with one hand and Corin's arm with the other. "_Draw_!"

Corin looked a little put out, but the relief on Cor's face was evident, and he accepted the cheers of the crowd with a meek little wave before limping out of the ring and letting a few older maids help him onto a low stone wall to put his shoes back on. Meanwhile, Corin got a drink of water, spat blood out of his mouth and shouted out for his next challenger. He was met by a loud chorus of masculine voices.

Aravis pushed through the suffocating press of unwashed bodies to where she could see Cor's golden head, dampened with sweat, bobbing as he struggled to put his boots on. The air was fresher out of the crowd, and she breathed deep as she approached.

He leapt to his feet when he saw her, the swelling on his face and ribs belying the grin that was spread across his freckled face. "Aravis," he said, reaching for her. "What did you think?"

His hand was damp and hot, the bandage rough, but she gripped it all the same and said, "Wonderfully."

"Really?"

"Of course. How do you feel?"

"Muddled. Am I bruised?"

"A bit." His ribs felt swollen to the touch of her hand, and the puffiness on his cheekbone meant that he would have a black eye before the night was over, Aravis thought sadly, gazing at him. "But you look…you look magnificent, Cor."

He grinned just as the crowd cheered; Corin and a tall, dark groom were going at it with flying fists. Cor watched them, the smile he had flashed her still playing on his lips—_thank the Lion Corin stayed away from those_—and dancing in his blue eyes. "Better than the next fellow, at any rate."

"Always," she answered gently.

Cor turned to look at her, a faint furrow forming above each brow. "What?"

A hot flush leaped unexpectedly onto Aravis's cheeks, and she dropped Cor's hand and wiped the residual sweat and grease off on her skirt. "Nothing—you know what I mean. Come on, you should get indoors before you freeze to death."

She seized his shirt and tunic and marched across the courtyard, the breeze cold against her burning face. Cor tripped and scrambled after her, but she refused to turn around and risk meeting his gaze—those piercing blue eyes of his would see right through her defenses and see the truth, everything she'd squirreled away in the deepest recesses of her being: Khurshid, and what lay deeper than that, the thing that had never been uttered, never even come to full consciousness.

"What's the rush?" he asked, catching up and seizing her skirt with one swollen-knuckled hand as they climbed the staircase that swept up into the entrance hall from the courtyard.

"You should get cleaned up and rest," she answered briskly, refusing to meet his gaze. "Tonight will require you to have your full strength." A manservant bowed as they passed, and she said to him, "Fetch someone to draw His Royal Highness a hot bath. Right away, please."

"Yes, m'lady," the servant said, bowing reverently and hurrying away even as Cor tugged a little on her skirt. His hands were leaving grease stains on the soft fabric, indelible marks of his presence that would not wash out.

"Aravis," he said gently but insistently.

"What, Cor?" she said with a touch more irritation than she actually felt.

He looked rebuffed, and for a moment there was a touch of the wounded puppy she saw so many nights ago in his face again, but he hid it with a small smile and said, "I just…want you to know I'm always going to be here for you. All right? No matter what happens."

"In case I need someone to wear a _nimruzan_ with me?" she asked, softening.

"Sure," he said after a pause.

She sighed and touched his swollen ribs again, his flesh warm and firm to her touch. "Come on. You need to rest."

"Bet Corin's smashing those other lads. I feel a bit sorry for them, don't you? Thinking Corin would go easy on them like he did me."

"He didn't go easy on you," she protested as they wandered shoulder-to-shoulder towards the west wing.

"He did too."

"Did not!"

"Look at my face! He didn't hit me in the mouth, not once."

"He knew not to. Save his knuckles for the rest of the fights."

"_I_ hit him in the mouth. He had plenty of opportunity to get me back with an elbow, a knee, anything. But he didn't."

"Do you know why?" she asked softly.

Cor was quiet a minute, scuffing the toe of his boot on the cobblestones as he walked. "Because I'm to be king soon."

"Yes. And he knows it would be best for you if he didn't clobber your teeth in."

Cor grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Aravis watched him in silent grief, soaking up the joy from that easy smile, the one that had been so late in coming when they were children. Shasta never smiled, at least not really, not the kind of smile that reaches one's eyes. It took him many months of good meals, presents, hugs from Lune, and long nights curled up shivering at the foot of her bed before he learned to _grin_.

He would be so angry tonight.

"They've already started preparing your bath," she said when they came to his chamber. The door was open, and they heard the telltale sounds of splashing water coming from within. "I'll leave you be."

"You're leaving?"

His words caught her off-guard, and she laughed a bit awkwardly. "Yes. You can bathe yourself."

Cor spluttered a moment. "_Yes_, but—I can't—"

"Can't what?"

He flushed to the tips of his ears. "I—I find it hard to rest now without…without you."

"Shh," she answered, glancing around with a nervous laugh. "People will think we're _carrying on_."

Cor looked abashed, and he hunched his shoulders. "Sorry."

She put his clothes in his hands. "I'll see you tonight."

He nodded, and Aravis set off down the corridor with long strides. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull, but she kept marching, knowing that if she turned back, she would lose her resolve. As it was, it would be hard enough to do what she had to.

Her chambers were dark and cold, but, as she picked up the thin notebook and worn pencil she hadn't opened in months, she took small comfort in the fact that in a matter of hours, they would be bustling with maidservants.

It was a long walk to Elnaz's chambers on the other side of the castle, and the notebook chafed Aravis's bandaged fingers, though she realized after a point that her discomfort was largely emotional. It seemed so wrong—she had had the sensation of interviewing her replacement before, but it was so _real_ now that the replacement had the same nose, same mouth, same dark hair.

A veiled maidservant opened the door at Aravis's knock, and she was ushered in to the sacred space of a Calormene woman's chambers: they had been decorated in the sumptuous Calormene manner of rich fabrics in vibrant colors, and Elnaz's young maids lounged on low couches in silk and satin robes, their hair covered with veils of white to signify their lower status. It seemed to Aravis like a silken cage.

"Dear cousin," Elnaz said. It was boiling, and Aravis broke a sweat as Elnaz beckoned her to the steamed window where she sat on satin cushions. She extended a painted hand to Aravis, who took it and joined her. "Methought you too barbarian to suffer my Tashbaani chambers."

"I assure you from the depths of my heart, you mistake me, virtuous cousin," Aravis said, glancing about the room. It was homey, in a sickening sort of way; the fabric draping the walls made the stone chamber seem more like the tents they would spend the hottest months of summer in, trying to catch breezes in the wetter parts of Calavar. "I find myself at home."

She was not used to seeing Elnaz's mouth, either. Her cousin's eyes were sultry and dark, as they were expected to be above the veil, but her lips were turned down, thin and washed out with years of silence.

"You are suddenly amenable to it. Why the change of heart, dear cousin?"

"I find myself in a position in which I must change my heart."

Elnaz blinked, and Aravis was grateful to see her whole face. With a snap, she dismissed her maids, and they filed away silently, leaving them alone in the hot room. "Speak your mind, cousin," she said breathlessly.

"Are you sure it is safe?"

The small girl shook her head. "Do you remember the tongue of our fathers?"

Aravis smiled wryly. "How could I forget it?"

Elnaz took a deep breath and said in the smooth, rolling language that had been spoken in Calormen since the time of the horse-men, now solely the purview of the noble classes, "Speak, cousin, and be at ease."

"I have accepted his lordship the viscount's son's offer of matrimony." The words felt foreign on Aravis's tongue for many reasons, and she gripped her notebook closer. "I am to wed him in a fortnight."

"I see." Elnaz stared openly for a moment. "With your most honorable brother's permission?"

"No. My status in Archenland grants me the legal right to accept a subordinate in marriage if I have no one to speak for me. I bring little to the marriage bed as a Calormene—my dowry will be sizeable, but my father's estate has gone to my brother. Not like in Archenland."

"You are sure, dear cousin Aravis?" Elnaz asked, her voice—so remarkably familiar with its Calormene color—thick. "You must be absolutely sure."

_No, I'm not! Make me save myself!_ "Yes, dear Elnaz."

A few tears spilled down Elnaz's dusky cheek, and she dashed them away with a trembling hand. "You _know_. _You_ _know_."

Real, agonizing grief rose up inside Aravis like a wave, an icy, soaring wall, and she nearly choked on the pain of it as it blocked out every other good, warm thing inside her. "Yes, Elnaz." She reached out and seized Elnaz's tiny hand. "I know what he's done."

"And yet you marry him?"

"And _so_ I marry him. I am nothing. I am doing it for Cor—and for you, dear, sweet, poor cousin."

Elnaz rolled up the sleeves of her beautiful, draping robe to reveal her bronze arm. The smooth, young flesh of her inner elbow, where young women should be kissed and tickled, was dark with old bruises, evidence of Khurshid's iron grip. Wordlessly, Aravis rolled up her own sleeve and showed her own. Elnaz raised eyes brimming with pain to Aravis's, and for a long moment they sat together, not speaking but communing in the dark, secret language of the voiceless.

"And what of His Royal Highness?" Elnaz asked at last. "What does he say?"

"He doesn't know," Aravis answered, clearing her throat. "And he won't, at least not why. Someday he'll—_you'll_—understand. But—and Elnaz, listen—he has agreed to take you away. He will take care of you. Cor will take you to Anvard, make sure you find a good, kind husband. He might even marry you himself. Would you like that? To be away from Zohra, from the Sidrats, forever?"

Elnaz was silent. "I could never return to Calormen if I live like a barbarian. Not truly. You know this."

"I do," Aravis answered softly. "But Elnaz—you are a woman now, but I know the girl you were. If you live like a barbarian, you will not _want_ to return to Calormen. _This_ is what I know. You will see the beauty of their ways, these so-called barbarians. You will love a good man, and he will love you well in return. If that is the barbarian way, then I embrace it wholeheartedly. Can't you see?"

"And yet you give it up so easily," Elnaz whispered. "If this people, this kingdom, is so beautiful, why do you give it up?"

"I do not give it up," Aravis replied, clinging to her cousin's hand. "I give myself up _for_ it. Therein lies the difference. Do you understand?"

"Yes," rasped Elnaz. "I do not see, but I understand. I look to you for guidance and for encouragement. Was it very frightening, when you did it?"

Aravis shook her head. "Don't fear. Cor was with me when I came to Archenland for real, and he will be with you, too. It will be…best for you that way."

"My maids?"

"They must stay. Hana and Janey will care for you until you are used to it."

"You don't have any."

"Not when traveling, no."

"And my veils?"

"Until you reach Anvard, you must wear them at all times. If you can, Elnaz…you _must_ make strangers think you are me. Stay close to Cor—to His Royal Highness."

Elnaz nodded, swallowing visibly. "What will they say about me in Anvard?"

"Nothing worse than what they said about me. Be kind to the Anvardians. Be courteous. Be noble. They cannot ask for anything more. Can you do this?"

The small young woman nodded shakily. "Imagine—me! In the barbarian capital! What is it like?"

Aravis had to smile a bit. "It is the most beautiful city you can imagine. It is built into the mountain like a fortress of old, but the palace is made of red stone. When the sun sets, it looks like it is on fire. You can walk in the streets with your head uncovered, and no one will throw pebbles or chase you away. There are no slaves, no whips. The Lion is known there, and the people seek to follow his example of kindness."

"I will live there," said Elnaz quietly, "and I will be content."

The relief Aravis felt was bittersweet, and she leaned back against a silken cushion with a sigh. Elnaz watched her, but it was too much for Aravis to return the gaze, so she turned her head and stared out the window. The chamber was perfectly positioned above the courtyard, and she could see Corin hammering upon a poor, skinny challenger with his famous right fist. "His lordship the viscount's son will announce our betrothal tonight at the feast. The others will stay until the wedding, and then you will depart with them."

"Yes."

Aravis opened the notebook to the next blank page and took up her pencil. "I will record you with the rest of the women, then, and pass this book on to Janey. She will have to take my place as chronicler."

"I admire her," Elnaz admitted. "She seems to be a good woman."

"She is. They all are."

Elnaz brightened a bit, and she answered Aravis's questions dutifully and watched as she recorded them, filling up the cream-colored page with lines of neat pencil.

"Sign your name here," Aravis said in the common tongue, turning the book to Elnaz.

Taking up the pencil, Elnaz leaned forward and scratched her name at the bottom of the page to verify that the agreement was binding. "Is it done?"

"Cor will sign the page as well, and then all will be settled."

Elnaz nodded. "I feel…strange, dear cousin."

"I know."

"I am a bit frightened."

"That's to be expected. You will not be safe all the time, cousin. But you will be protected."

There was a light in Elnaz's eye that Aravis had not seen since they were girls, splashing together in the cool river that ran behind the tarkh and whispering of all the adventures they would make. How they had wanted to be like the horsewomen of old, tall and powerful and wielding swords as long and curved as their horses' necks. In those days, a woman could not wed before she had slain a man in battle; the day a girl got her woman's blood was the day she was seen as ready for her blade to taste a man's. Perhaps Elnaz would not take up a sword and lead the band against their foes, but she was still escaping from the silken cage that had bound her tighter and tighter.

She smiled. "_Ba shadá qeleb azadi aset_." _With joy the heart is made free_, went the old Calormene proverb. The wise men in their ivory towers grinned with toothless gums and believed that the writer meant that the presence of joy would liberate a downcast spirit from difficult situations. But Elnaz would know better. While the wise men smoked and drank in their smoky tower rooms, the wise women rolled the leaf with their stained fingers and sighed, for they knew that the writer meant that _freedom_ brought the heart joy. Freedom, and nothing else.

Elnaz squeezed her hand with sudden strength. "_A'emal khôb anijam shedh hemrah ba derd sakheth shedh isit._"

_Good deeds done in pain become great_.

"Be cautious for now," Aravis said gently to her. "I must get ready for the feast."

"Yes."

Aravis rose slowly, feeling as though an anvil had settled onto her shoulders, but smiled for Elnaz's sake. The coolness of the corridor outside hit her unsettlingly. Elnaz's maids were clustered near the door, whispering to each other, but they went quiet when they saw Aravis's face, and she swept past them silently as they knelt on the floor to acknowledge her passing.

Cor was sleeping when she came to his room, or nearly. "'Cided t' join me?" he asked with a sleepy smile as she sat on the edge of his bed.

"I can't. My maids have to get me ready for tonight."

"Hmmff."

She stroked his hair for a minute, gazing down at the half of his face that was not hidden by the pillow he was lying on. He had been scrubbed clean by his manservants, his hair the brilliant red-gold color it always was after it had just been washed. It fell haphazardly across his forehead, but it did not hide the dark purple bruise that was spreading across his eye. "Cor."

"'R'vis."

"You need to sign this."

"Hmmff. Wha' for."

"Elnaz."

He grumbled a little, but when she put the pencil in his slightly swollen hand and guided it to the open notebook, he scrawled his royal name across the bottom and said, "Good?"

"Good." She shut the notebook and tucked it back under her arm. "You can go back to sleep now."

He obliged immediately and slipped back into a light doze; Aravis stayed by his side, her hand open in his warm hair, until she heard his breath come deep and slow. Then she got up, slipped from the room, and marched along the cold corridors like a soldier to his post. It really was like going into battle, she thought wryly. She was on her way to be armored.

A small luncheon awaited her in her chambers. She took her time nibbling on the cold chicken and toasted bread, nursing her watered wine until an hour had passed and she could not delay the inevitable any longer. A maid took away her tray, and the others led her into her bedchamber, where she climbed into a bath scented with the familiar spices of home; the water scalded and the perfumes pinched her skin, but she lay back and tried to relax as the charmaids did their work.

Once she had been scrubbed clean and the dark hair on her body burned away, one maid rubbed cedarwood oil into her hair so it would gleam like bronze in the firelight. Another cleaned and pared her nails, while yet another massaged thick creams and lotions into her water-wrinkled skin. While her hair dried, they helped her climb onto her bed and laid her on her back, draping her breasts and thighs with thin blankets to keep her warm while a tiny, wrinkled woman clambered up after her with a paintbrush and a pot of dark, foul-smelling paste.

Aravis gripped the blankets as the woman used the thin, cold brush to trace intricate designs across her hips and the swell of her belly. She didn't have to look down to know, by the continuing movement of the old woman's lips, that she was writing Calormene marriage and fertility blessings in the old way, each character a work of art in itself. The design arced up her stomach, where it would be seen over the waistband of her trousers.

While the paste dried, the maids painted her face, paying special attention to her eyes, which they darkened with a liberal application of kohl and black creams. She then stood up, and they swept the dried paste off her belly with small brushes, revealing a pattern of dark staining that swirled and danced on her swarthy skin. The marks would take months to wear away.

They helped her step into her gauzy trousers, then laced her up tightly into the short, embroidered bodice, which dipped low across her bosom and back and left her upper arms and midriff bare. While the bodice was stiff and supportive, the fabric of the trousers was smooth and gossamer, loose yet many layers thick, and it brushed across her naked skin sensuously, but Aravis was in no state of mind to enjoy it. She was suiting up for battle.

After plaiting her hair with gold thread, the maids brought forth a small mahogany box, and Aravis, like she was in a trance, reached into it and began to don the gold jewelry she found within. Her wrists jangled with bracelets large and small; a thick, glimmering chain went around her neck, and as two maids clipped bells around her ankles, another slipped bejeweled strands of gold into her hair so it dripped down onto her forehead. Carefully, she put glittering studs into the small holes in Aravis's face that had been punched years ago: four in each ear, and one on the side of her right nostril.

Tears of pain welled up in Aravis's eyes, but she held her breath and sat still as they approached with her crowning glory: a scarlet scarf wrought with gold thread and tiny rubies, and began to wind it around her glossy hair and bare neck. The ceremonial scarf must be arranged just so, and they tucked and pinned until it covered her head and spilled over her naked shoulders to loop near her decorated midriff and travel back up again.

Aravis was exhausted by the time they brought her the slippers with the curled toes. These, too, were done in scarlet silk and gold cord, but they felt like shackles as she slipped them on with a jingle of her bells. She wore no stays, but the feeling of the scarf around her throat made her choke, want to rip it off and sob for breath somewhere where Khurshid couldn't find her, somewhere she could stand up and speak out for herself, for her kin.

"Milady?" said the head charmaid, proffering a small platter.

Aravis looked away from her own haunting, strange reflection and saw the small perfumed patty that awaited her. Heaven forbid her breath smelled any worse than she did. She took it and placed it dutifully under her tongue, then rose from her seat slowly, her maids stepping aside.

"I will not require your assistance tonight," she said evenly to them.

They curtsied.

Aravis turned and slipped from the room, the bells around her ankles tinkling ominously with each mincing step. It would not do to appear in her graceful garb walking like an Anvardian cavalryman, would it? No; she had to make each step appear as though she were a desert _jin_, shimmering along in the heat of the sun-warmed sand. It would not be hard to do with her limbs covered in fine jewels.

The thin, familiar wail of the _felwêt_, the Calormene reed flute, reached her ears while she was still in the west wing. Soon, she could hear the thumping of the small lap drums as well, and she knew there would be bells and tambourines and small, lithe girls in headdresses who danced with their feet and hips and held their shackled hands high above their heads.

And there he was. Clothed in the finest garb of a rich tarkaan, Khurshid stood waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She wished fervently that her costume had included a veil like Elnaz's, for she struggled to keep her face nobly neutral as she descended the staircase with exaggerated slowness. Khurshid's dark eyes raked her from head to foot.

"You have done well," he said, looking at her breasts and bare belly as she curtsied low. "We will celebrate the fertility the great god Tash has bestowed upon you."

She did not answer—he did not want her to—and let him take her arm. The sounds of music and drums coming from behind the heavy, carved doors into the great hall were incessant, and Khurshid nearly had to drag her behind him as two swarthy footmen swung the doors to.

The hall had been completely redecorated for the occasion. It glared with candlelight, and Aravis saw that instead of tables, the many guests were seated on cushions and ate from a low, fabric-covered platform that stretched the length of the massive room and held an abundance of food-filled bowls and platters. Nearly a dozen slender slave girls, their skin darker even than Aravis's, danced in the middle of the room to the sensuous music of a tall, fat flutist who played with a snake coiled around his shoulders. More musicians crowded near each cluster of guests.

A ripple of sound went through the gathering when they saw their lord and the tarkheena at his side, and Aravis felt their eyes burning into her like so many hot brands. If Khurhsid's hand hadn't been around her fingers like a vise, she would have turned back and run off, tearing away that wretched scarf as she went.

_But I don't run_.

_I persevere_.

She looked around the room with a cold eye, despising the open curiosity of the stares that pierced her. It may be the festival of fertility, the birth of a new year by the Calormene calendar, but to her, the room was full of enemies, any one of them a potential murderer, and she did not condone their questioning.

One face, though, did not look back at her with curiosity. She gazed back at Cor, drinking in the admiration and approval she saw reflected in his freckled face—somehow, it was a benign look, an eminently soft one, unlike the hard, evaluative look Khurshid have given her just moments before. She smiled back at him, who, true to his word, was wearing his _nimruzan_ with a red sash.

Khurshid had her sit to his left, and she was glad to see that Dar was next to her. "_Kawshal jadida sa'id_, Dar."

The handsome man with grey-flecked temples looked up from his wine goblet with a mildly confused look. "Hm? What was that?"

"I wished you a prosperous _Jadida Sa'id_."

"Ah, of course."

She reached for a fig leaf, coated in honey and stuffed with fowl, and nibbled it lightly. "You seem distracted."

"Do I?" Dar laughed vaguely, setting his cup down. "Hardly, milady. Merely…keen to travel on."

"The roads are clearing quickly, I hear."

"Not quickly enough."

_We must keep His Highness here until late January._

"Come now, Lord Dar," she said lightly, helping herself to a dish of _lavat i'koresht_. "Surely you can't mean that. His lordship the viscount's son has been so hospitable."

Dar broke a smile and raised his goblet to her. "Indeed he has, milady. Indeed he has."

Aravis spent the rest of the meal in silence, for it was not seemly for a man's betrothed to speak openly with men who were not her promised husband. At least in public. She felt the chill air against her bare midriff and suddenly longed, to the point of tears, for the warmth of Cor's arm about her waist. Such a simple thing, really—but it seemed now like an unreachable prize, a golden moment now shriveled up into the dusty emptiness of the past. Why hadn't she treasured those hours more? Why hadn't she lain awake with him more, had more patience with him as a girl?

She drank goblet upon goblet of wine, if for no other reason than to give her mouth something to do as Khurshid ate, drank, and laughed more and more boisterously with his fellows. What if he drank too much and tried to kiss her in front of everyone? She could not stomach the thought, so she drank another mouthful to steady her nerves. The bells on her ankles began to dig into her legs.

_Should I tell him first?_

She looked at Khurshid furtively; he was paying her no attention at all, his entire focus on his drinks and the handsome, rich friends he was entertaining. When would he announce it? Surely there was more to come tonight—it was scarcely twilight. In Tashbaan, _Jadida Sa'id_ was celebrated for three days and three nights, the daytime full of parties and carnivals and at night the dark skies lit with brilliant fireworks.

_If he hears it from Khurshid he'll never forgive me_.

_But how do I tell him? When?_

She leaned forward, ostensibly for more food, and caught a glimpse of Cor laughing at one of Corin's jokes. He had been looking so happy of late; she was loath to do anything to hurt him.

The night wore on. Khurshid got progressively drunker, and Aravis herself found each goblet of wine going down easier and easier until her pinched feet felt distant and the ache in her gut was muted. _Fertility, indeed_, she thought amusedly.

Suddenly, Khurshid lurched to his feet, and the room went out of focus and came back into piercing clarity as Aravis saw the end of her effective life, that thing she had taken so for granted, step a foot inside the door.

"Friends," he bellowed over the whining flutes. "Friends! Let us take a respite from our excellent fare. The goddess of love and life, she lights up the skies!"

Aravis looked out the thin windows that lined the hall; night had fallen, and an inky blackness had settled over the castle like a funeral shroud. It pressed close, suffocating her and laughing at her feeble struggles.

The hall began to empty out as its occupants filtered out through massive doors into the darkened gardens that spread out below their wing of the castle. This was the highlight of the night; as soon as the fireworks were over, they would file back in for desserts and chilled mead and then Khurshid would stand up and her life would be over, Cor would turn away, she would be locked away in that terrible silken cage.

Khurshid lurched away from his seat, scattering a bowl of rice with an errant foot as a handsome friend of his half-dragged him towards the exit. They sang bawdy songs as they went. Aravis sat on her cushion, watching, waiting, the weight of the darkness and of the scarf around her neck keeping her pinned to the ground.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Cor," she said abruptly. The word fell out reflexively, and she gazed at him, drank in his youth, his handsomeness, his happiness.

"Come on!" he replied, grinning. "You can't miss the fireworks. It's the best part!"

She didn't know how to tell him she was paralyzed with fear.

The grin on his face disappeared, and he knelt down beside her with a squeak of his polished boots. "What's wrong? I can see it in your face, Aravis—"

"Nothing," she lied quickly, and smiled. "Let's go."

He watched her for a long moment. Aravis did not bother to hide the fear she felt; she returned the gaze almost desperately, hoping beyond hope that he could decode her expression. Instead, he gave a small smile and extended a bandaged hand to her. "Yes. Let's go."

Putting her hand in his took a major effort. For a moment, though, as his warm fingers encircled hers, she forgot the future and all that it held. It was just the two of them, Shasta and Aravis, and everything was as it should be.

The garden was crowded. As tipsy guests sang and laughed and tripped over low planters, light from the windows of the castle spilled down into the courtyard, but the tall brown hedges cast long shadows on the damp cobblestones. Clouds scudded across the inky black sky. It was bitingly cold, colder than it looked, and Aravis couldn't keep back a convulsive shiver as the wine worked its way to her toes and the icy wind curled around her midriff.

"You're freezing," Cor said, squeezing her hand, a note of worry sneaking into his voice.

"No, I'm all right. I don't want to miss the fireworks."

"We can find somewhere inside to watch from. You're not dressed for being outdoors."

"I'm not really dressed for anything worth my time," she said dryly, and Cor laughed.

"Come on. If we hurry, we won't miss anything…!"

"What if we're seen?"

"We'll go somewhere where no one can find us."

Together, they ran back towards the hulking shadow that was the castle. The wine made Aravis breathless, reckless, and she tripped a few times on the curling toes of her slippers and laughed. Cor found a door under the staircase they had descended from the hall, and, finding it unlocked, they slipped through into a shadowy corridor. It was warm here, heat and noise coming from the nearby kitchens as servants cleaned up from dinner and prepared the final course.

"There's got to be a window somewhere," Cor said, letting her lead him by the hand through the narrow hallway.

"The bottlery usually has one," she replied, "so the distiller can read the barrels without bringing flame too close."

After a moment or two of looking into pantries and butteries, at last she opened the door to the dark, quiet room that housed the castle's store of drink. It was a large room, stretching far into the bowels of the stone fortress, and when Cor closed the door behind them, the click of the latch echoed against the heavy barrels that lined the walls.

They tiptoed hand-in-hand to the back, where casks of mead sat stacked in front of shuttered windows. Cor reached out and opened the shutters, and the blue light of night flooded the room with dark shadows. All that could be seen of the garden was the tips of the tall trees that dotted the perimeters, and the soft black sky stretched far afield.

"Any moment now," he said softly. As he spoke, a distant pop echoed against the walls of the castle and the room was flooded with a flash of light.

The fireworks held no wonder for Aravis; she watched Cor even as his arm brushed hers. His profile was noble, even with the swelling around his eye, and he gazed out at the wild landscape with a look of fondness in his face. She knew he was thinking of being king, of ruling the beautiful land he saw before him, and that it frightened him a little. He would never give Archenland up, not now, even with the threat of death hanging over his head. The soil owned him as much as he owned it; it had leeched into his soul the essence of itself, and he belonged to it now more than she ever would.

She knew then that she was doing what she was almost as much for Archenland as she was for him. The kingdom needed him, deserved a chance to have his gentle, loyal hand at her helm; it seemed unfair that he should be plucked out of misery and put here with her, if he was only to be murdered before taking his rightful place on the throne of his fathers.

She began to unwind her scarf.

It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Her hands found the pins that held it to her head almost unwittingly, and she removed them one by one and placed them on the lid of a barrel that stood by her side. Cor watched her silently, his eyes following the movements of her fingers as she loosened the jewels that draped her forehead and laid them aside, too. The fabric of the scarf whispered against her hair as she pushed it back and unwound it from her neck until the cold night air touched her bare skin. She put the scarf aside and stood before him with her head uncovered and heart aching.

Cor reached out and brushed aside a lock of her hair that had slipped out of its plait and fallen forward over her cheek. His fingers were soft against her skin.

"I want you to know, Aravis," he said softly, his voice low and gentle, "that no matter what happens—good or bad—we'll take care of each other. Like we've always done."

"Always," she said.

And then she was in his arms, his heart thumping against hers as his lips moved softly under hers. He tasted of sweet wine. The fabric of his _nimruzan_ slipped between her fingers and she grasped it, fisted her hands against his firm chest and felt the pressure of each of his fingertips as he gripped her bare arms and pulled her closer. One hand slipped away and up her back, tracing the line of scarring, and her breath caught as it found a home cupped against her neck. Cor leaned into her. She held him tightly, kissing his mouth with every once of the being that would soon no longer be hers, and as she traced his face with the tips of her fingers, he sighed her name against her lips.

The creak of a door startled Aravis like a thunderclap, and she wrenched away from Cor's grasp. Her mouth felt warm and her hands trembled as she began to clip the jewels back into her hair, listening to the distant sounds of a humming kitchen boy who searched amidst the barrels, quite unaware that they existed.

"We should go," she whispered, not quite trusting her voice yet.

"Aravis…"

_Aravis_. He had whispered her name into the kiss, like it was a caress in and of itself, an involuntary response. She shook her head. "They're getting ready for the last course."

She led the way out, numbly winding her scarf around her hair and neck as she went. It would not look right anymore now that she had undone it, but then again, what would?

_Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid!_

A perplexed-looking maid pointed them to the stairs that would lead them up to the main level of the castle. Aravis hurried up the steps, trying very hard not to trip on her slippers—she was no longer in the mood to laugh.

"Aravis," Cor said again, more urgently this time.

She refused to look around at him. They emerged in the entrance hall near the massive doors that led to the great hall, and the roar of an excited, tipsy crowd met her ears; she tucked the edge of her scarf away and slipped to her seat just as the last of the laughing guests streamed in from the rear exit. Cor slinked in behind her; _but I refuse to look!_

Khurshid was approaching the dais where they sat; Aravis felt her insides liquefying with fear and guilt as his bleary dark eyes met hers. The singing and giggling attempts at saying _kawshal jadida sa'id_ that filled the hall went strangely muffled, and she realized that she was feeling sick to her stomach. He stared at her for a long time as his handsome friends helped him towards her.

"Friends!" he bellowed when he had reached his seat, shaking free of his friends' arms and turning unsteadily to wave his arms at the several hundred of people that crowded the hall. His word was met with a boisterous roar of greeting. Aravis couldn't stomach the mint sorbet that was proffered her.

"Friends! The goddess…has blessed us tonight with the fruit of her massive loins!"

The men in the audience cheered and raised their glasses, slopping pink wine over the beautiful cloths that covered their low tables. Aravis ducked a splash that fell from Khurshid's goblet.

Khurshid drank deeply from another chalice that was offered to him by a friend. "Ah…but it is fitting, is it not, that on this night of the goddess, she who grows our young with the milk from her breasts and waters our fields with the dew from between her thighs, that it is the night I decide to spread my seed!"

Another roar of approval.

"My friends, tonight I have determined to take a bride! She of the fertile _Nobakh'i al-Tavâna_ line, a noble tarkheena of Calormen, only daughter of the house of Calavar, shall surely bear me a son before the new year is over!"

The applause that filled the hall made Aravis's head ache. She stared down at her hands, fighting back tears of shame; it was all too obvious that the head dais, filled with her friends and comrades, was deathly silent, and she could feel their eyes upon her.

"Stand up," Khurshid hissed.

Aravis got to her feet and bowed in the Calormene way to the audience, who received her with catcalls and whistles.

"Enjoy the fruits of the goddess's loins," Khurshid howled to the drunks in the audience, "as I enjoy the fruits of my betrothed's! You are all invited to our wedding in a fortnight!"

Aravis flushed angrily, but she bit her tongue hard and tried to look passably neutral. Khurshid sat down as the commotion in the hall rose back up to the level of overstimulated feast guests downing still more food and drink, and Aravis shakily lowered herself back down to the pillow.

"_What…the…hell?_"

The voice was Corin's, but when Aravis turned to look, it was Cor who had stood up, flushed to the tips of his ears. Darrin, looking pale but mortified, tried to get him to sit down, but Cor shook him off, his wide blue eyes wild. "You're _marrying_ him?" he said loudly.

"Cor, please," she said wretchedly. _You don't understand_.

"_You're marrying him_?"

She didn't know what to say.

"Hell," Corin repeated loudly, standing by his brother. "You're joking, Aravis. It's not fucking funny."

"I'm not," she said flatly.

"_Great bloody—_"

"_You're marrying him?_" Cor was shouting now, the flush on his face turning to a brilliant vermillion.

"Yes," Aravis cried.

"_Bloody fucking hell!_" Corin bellowed.

She had never seen the two of them so angry. Their anger cowed her, but it also sparked an equal response in her own gut, and she got to her feet. "What of it?"

Cor turned and stalked towards the door.

"Come back here, Cor," she shouted, suddenly furious with him. "Coward—"

"Coward?" he shot back as she gave chase. "_Coward_? You dare call _me _a coward after that clever stunt you just pulled—"

The footmen let them out, and their voices were suddenly echoing in the emptiness of the entrance chamber. Aravis felt chilled. "It wasn't a stunt," she said heatedly. "I'm getting married—you knew this was going to happen at some point."

"No, I didn't! Ten minutes ago we were—"

"Ten minutes ago is in the past."

"Everything is in the past, Aravis! Everything we've done—everything I've told you—that means _nothing_ to you? How the hell can you justify—"

"'Justify'! Damn you, Cor, I don't need to justify anything, _especially_ my decision to marry—"

He turned on his heel and faced her with a fierce look. "You don't want this. You don't want to marry him, Aravis, I know you!"

"You don't," she flung back cruelly, purposefully. "You see what I've let you see. I want to marry Khurshid—what is my life? I follow you aimlessly in the wilderness, putting myself at risk, for you! Who are you to me? A boy—a skinny, pale boy. Nothing more."

For a moment, the anger on Cor's face slipped away, and she saw there the pain her words had caused. She wanted to vomit, to throw herself into an abyss, but it was the only way—he would never believe her, never leave it be, and he would be in danger. They would all be in danger.

"Dammit, Aravis—"

The voice was Corin's, now, and he strode towards them with Hana, Janey, and Ram hurrying along behind. "The hell was that?" he asked her. "You haven't married him yet. Take it back. You can still take it back, can't you?"

"Forget it, Corin," Cor said harshly, turning away, the spite in his voice piercing her to the very core. "She's made her choice. It's not worth your time."

Corin stared at him, then at Aravis. "You're—you're not—"

"It's my business who I marry," she said coldly.

Cor strode away. Corin looked torn for a moment, then rushed after him, the sound of the heels of their boots fading away as they went down the corridor

"You can't," burst out Hana as soon as they were gone, sobbing. "Aravis, you promised! You promised to be with us—to be my friend—"

"I have to, Hana," Aravis said. "It's the right thing."

Janey wrapped her in her arms, tears in her own eyes. "What does that mean? The 'right thing'. By whose standards?"

"It's the right thing for me," Aravis answered.

"No, it isn't," Janey retorted. "The right thing is to come with us, get as far away from this place, _that man_, as you can!"

"He is a good man."

"He's a snake!"

Aravis took a deep breath and summoned the last vestiges of her strength. "I'm truly sorry that I didn't tell you earlier. Khurshid wanted it to be a surprise."

"You're calling him _Khurshid_ already—"

"It makes me desperately sad to know I must say goodbye to you soon, but you all knew that one day I would marry and we would be split up."

"_No_," said Hana, weeping. "I left my father because you _told_ me you would be with me all the way—to help me and guide me—I _trusted _you, Aravis!"

Aravis had to close her eyes and cover her face with a trembling hand. She felt cold inside, and empty, like a gust of wind could carry her away. "I'm sorry." _I'm so, so sorry—you'll understand someday. Please, forgive me!_ "I hope you can find it in your power to be good to my cousin, despite what I have done to you."

Ram cleared his throat. "Come, my ladies," he said gently, patting Hana and Janey on the shoulders. "You've had a great shock. Let me escort you to your chambers."

Aravis took a deep breath as Ram and Hana and Janey went away. All she could think of through the fog of wine and anguish was that it was nighttime, and everything tended to look better in the morning, so she wandered to her chambers, clinging to the walls every few steps as her head went light.

She stripped naked and scrubbed her face with a rough cloth once she reached her dark, chilly room. It was an effort to don a nightgown, but she did so slowly, and then she laid on her back in her cold, empty bed and stared up at the ceiling.

_Cor should be here_.

Regret filled the emptiness inside her like water, and she wept.


	66. Chapter Sixty-Six

_Chapter Sixty-Six_

_Edited 7/9/13_

_Slam_.

Aravis started awake. For a second, she wondered at the throbbing pain behind her heavy eyes, but then the horrible memories of the night before came rushing back and she felt physically ill with the sorrow and regret that filled her up.

She didn't have much time to wallow. A moment later, a loud hammering came from her door, and she jumped, frightened, just as the door swung open beneath Khurshid's heavy fists.

"K—Khurshid!" she stammered, scrambling up into a sitting position as daylight streamed into her dark, stuffy room.

Tall, dark Khurshid snarled at her almost like a rabid dog; in his rage, he seemed to fill the room, his eyes bloodshot and puffy from the copious amount of drink he had consumed the night before. "_Where are_ _they_?"

"Who?" Aravis asked fearfully. "My lord betrothed, you're frigh—"

The question only seemed to make him angrier, and he flung his arm out to sweep the candles off of the mantle. They smashed onto the floor, the bronze candlesticks denting against the stone, and Aravis felt cold fear running through her veins like ice water. Her heart pounded in her ears. "Your _cohorts_," Khurshid roared. "Where did they go?"

A niggling worm of confusion made it through the rushing sound of her own terror. Cohorts? "My lord, I don't know what—"

He had crossed to her bed in an instant. Before she could turn away or even flinch, Khurshid seized her arm in his iron grip and he dragged her out of bed, tossing her onto the floor in front of the fireplace as though she weighed no more than a rag doll. Aravis cried out and threw her hands up just in time to avoid striking her head on the hearthstone, and pain radiated up her left arm.

"Don't act dense," he hissed. "Where did the slave-prince and his pack run off to? Where did you send them?"

Aravis cradled her throbbing wrist against her stomach, trembling with the force of the panic rushing through her body. "I—I don't—I didn't know they were gone, I swear, I—"

"My servants say they departed early this morning, and yet they left you here. What am I to make of that?"

"I didn't know!"

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," he said in a voice sharp as snapping twigs. He reached down and seized her plait, forcing her head back until she had no choice but to look directly into his face. It was changed utterly. What had once been handsome features were now so distorted by rage and alcohol that he looked otherwordly, demonic. She swallowed convulsively. "You set them up to this. You think me stupid, slut?"

"No," she pleaded, "not in the least. Please, milord—"

His hand came down sharply across her mouth. The fingers that were clenched in her hair tightened and her scalp went taut until she felt strands popping free. His voices dropped to a sinister hiss. "That whore cousin of yours went with them. Do you think she could have done so without your help? Do not lie to me, Aravis tarkheena, for I do not brook disobedience."

Aravis's mouth was slippery with blood—_split lip_—but she desperately licked her lips clean and said, "No, milord. I'm quite sure she went of her own accord. She made friends with the women, you see, and—"

Khurshid struck her again, this time with a closed hand, and his knuckles slammed against the bridge of her nose. Pain jolted through her head like a dagger. "You were seen entering her chambers nigh on yesterday noon," he bit out, his voice thundering in Aravis's ringing ears as she felt more blood trickle down her upper lip and fill her mouth. "What would you have me think?"

For a brief moment, Aravis found the truth crowding to the tip of her bloody tongue. It would be so easy to let it burst out on one of her gasping breaths, to end this torture, to slip down into the darkness that always followed. But as she opened her mouth, she felt the odd gaping sensation of a split lip and thought suddenly of the slaver's lash snaking through the air. She opened her eyes and looked straight into Khurshid's bottomless ones. "I went to speak to her about the marriage bed," she whispered. "Please, sire, I wish only to please you, and I…I beg you…"

Khurshid shook free of her, knocking her aside. "I've had enough of your mewling already." He stared at her with distaste, and Aravis wanted to disappear. "Get cleaned up for breakfast."

And with that, he was gone, and Aravis was alone in front of a dead fire, her white nightgown spotted with blood. For a long moment, she lay curled up on the carpet, the pain in her head so strong it blotted out everything else. It would be so much easier to stay there, she mused faintly, but somehow, her body disobeyed, and she felt her hand reach up with the hem of her sleeve to staunch the blood flowing from her throbbing nose, and then she sat up fully. It was over, for now. Khurshid was angry and hung-over and yet she had still convinced him of her innocence—in the end, a swollen mouth and bloodied nose were a small price to pay for Cor's safety.

_Cor._

Aravis could scarcely find the strength to move through the quicksand of pain around her, but she seized the edge of a table and pulled herself to her feet. _Where are they? Khurshid is angry. He cannot know where they are. There are too many of them to have simply been abducted._

Pain, deep, emotional pain, welled up inside her as she rang for her maids before stumbling to her vanity to fill a shallow bowl with stale water. They had left her. All of them—even Elnaz, her only ally, had abandoned her overnight, and she was left to her own defenses a fortnight too soon.

_Even Ram?_

She dipped her uninjured hand into the water and gingerly rinsed her face clean. The water in the white bowl turned pink with blood. She knew she should feel angry, be furious at Cor for running away without telling her, but she hurt too much to find the energy at the moment. She even understood, at some level…he was sweet and kind, but not a little hotheaded. It wouldn't have taken them long to pack their things, once he gave the order, and she knew she had slept late into the morning.

"Milady."

Her maids were here. She turned to face them, but none of the women blinked an eyelash at the state she was in; in fact, the head chambermaid gave her a vaguely disapproving look and pursed her lips. "I require something to bind my wrist," Aravis said to them, her voice clearer and calmer than she expected.

That was that. They cleaned her face more thoroughly, ignoring her whimpers of protest when they scrubbed her swollen lips, and dressed her in a modest blue frock with no detailing; perfect for a chastised maiden. While one brushed her hair, another bound her puffy wrist with stiff cloth, and that eased the pain enough for Aravis to breathe easier and clear her foggy brain.

"Apply some ointment to my lip," she commanded of the maid who was rubbing lotion into her legs. "The cut is unseemly."

"Yes, milady."

The maid did so with a long, narrow instrument. Pain seared up Aravis's face, but she closed her eyes and kept control of her expression, and soon the burning sensation had regressed into a dull ache that she could easily manage. "That will do," she said as she looked at her ravaged face in the mirror. No amount of cosmetics could hide the bruise that was spreading from the bridge of her nose to the soft skin under her left eye, and her lips were puffy and raw. Still, she could see a glimmer of fire in her tired eyes, and the smug knowledge that she could take a beating and get back up again gave her strength.

When her maids were gone, she slipped from her chambers. Walking was a chore. She pressed on, though, leaning against the cold stone walls of the castle until she reached Cor's chambers. The door stood open.

It was almost physically painful for her to peer in; the curtains had been taken down for cleaning already, and stained sheets hung over the furniture to keep it free of dust. It had not taken long for the household to begin erasing any trace of Cor's existence.

Aravis wandered in, sidestepping a maid with a mop bucket and several manservants carrying chimney brushes and grate cleaners. Everything was in its place, just as it had been just the afternoon before. The same book he had been reading was lying beside the settee where he'd left it. The only thing that seemed amiss was his bedchamber; the doors of his wardrobe hung open and the stone floor was littered with chunks of dried dirt that must have fallen from the satchels as he pulled them out. She could just imagine him shoving clothes into the open sacks, face red with frustration. The red sash that had been around his waist—_she could still remember the feel of the soft fabric under her fingers_—hung where he had thrown it haphazardly across the back of his chair.

Gazing around at the empty rooms was rather like watching a body being taken from its deathbed, so Aravis turned and left. She was grateful for the throbbing pain in her face and head; it distracted her from what surely would have been overwhelming sorrow. He had stolen himself away from her, denying her the simple civility of saying goodbye. At least that would have softened the blow—she knew that his stunned, hurt expression would now linger forever in her memory as the last time she had seen him.

She went down to breakfast.

Khurshid and Dar waited for her at the laden table, slumped over their plates as they smacked sullenly on greasy kippers. Aravis slid into her seat at the foot and helped herself to a bowlful of yellow porridge.

"What does my lord betrothed have planned for today?" she heard herself asking in a chirpy voice. Dar tried to hide his staring, but she could feel his eyes on her bruised nose and ravaged lip.

The Aravis she knew was horrified at how casual she sounded, but the Old Aravis—that wretched girl who had brought a ceremonial blade to her bosom—was climbing up from the deepest recesses of her brain and slowly taking control again. It was for the best, though—Old Aravis knew how to weather men like Khurshid. They never liked to be reminded of their viciousness; the bruises and bloodstains were enough. No, Aravis knew better. She must pretend that he had never laid a hand on her, or even that the beatings made her more loyal, more obedient. It was the only way.

Khurshid grunted. "Quite spoilt. Ungrateful wretches."

"Indeed, my lord. Unfairly so."

He huffed and drank deeply from a mug of hot tea. "Might go in to Muthill for a few nights. Bloody sick of this place."

"Must you?"

He glared at her but did not answer immediately, and Aravis sipped at a glass of watered wine. She was playing her part so well it made her nervous. "I think I might," he said at last. "There is a fortnight to fill before you warm my bed, anyway, so my time will be better spent elsewhere. Don't you think?"

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my lord," she said with a smile.

Khurshid guffawed. "Absence makes the cock grow harder, rather!"

Aravis swallowed as Dar snorted.

"Ah, patience, my little Calormene bitch-whippet," Khurshid went on with callous affection. "My cock will grow hard for you in due time."

"Hasten the day," Aravis said. It was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but Khurshid was too absorbed in finishing his tea to hear her.

He stood up abruptly, throwing his napkin down onto the table. "I will be taking Brasir and Jalsh with me, I think," he said, referring to two of his handsome friends. "Dar, I want you to join me."

"Ah, milord, I am honored. However, I was rather thinking that—"

"You find my company distasteful?"

"Hardly, milord!"

"Then you will spend some of your precious time accompanying me to Muthill."

A shadow crossed Dar's face, and for a moment, Aravis thought she saw a hint of the fearsome anger that had been on Khurshid's face less than an hour ago. A second later, though, and the expression was gone; Dar slumped back in his seat and said, "It will be as you command, my lord."

Aravis sipped her wine and thought that the four of them would be spending more time with each other in the whorehouses than with the actual whores. "When will you return, my lord betrothed?"

"When I feel like it." He caught her chin in an iron hand, and Aravis flinched. "Ah, but you have no great love for me. I expect that such a deficiency will have been remedied by the time of my return, hmm?"

His fingers were digging so hard into her cheek that Aravis could feel it scraping against her teeth. "I wish only to please you, milord."

"Good. Now give us a kiss."

The flesh on her inner lips was still raw from that morning and the split across her lower lip throbbed. Aravis wanted to push him away, but his insistence was overpowering and soon she found herself pressed back in the cold wooden seat as he hungrily kissed the mouth he had mutilated less than an hour before.

He broke away soon, though, making a face, and Aravis saw a streak of blood on his once-handsome lip. "Clean yourself up," he said with disgust.

As he strode away, Aravis held a linen napkin to her mouth to staunch the dribble of blood and fluid that was coming from the broken open wound. _Serves you right_, she thought with exhaustion. She pushed her porridge away, her appetite soured by the sight of it.

Dar watched her in silence. He looked exhausted, the last remaining vestiges of his youthful handsomeness worn away by hours of hard drinking and sleeplessness. Now he looked old, grizzled and craggy.

"Why did they go?" she asked him at last. Her voice sounded so eerie in the lofty echoes of the empty hall.

"Who, my lady?"

She glared at him with all the strength she had.

Dar cleared his throat. "I rather thought you knew, for I do not."

"Please, Lord Dar. I find it hard to believe that you, of all people, would let the two princes and your own _brother_ slip away under your nose."

The once-handsome man gave her a look darker than any she had ever seen on his face, and fear rose up in her throat like bile. _I am in a dreadful place_, she thought bitterly, excusing herself; _even the oldest friends seem treacherous in it_.

_But I have to be sure_.

Each of her friends' chambers was empty, the bedlinens rumpled and wardrobe doors hanging ajar. She stared at the cold hearths with a heavy grief. Never once had she felt as alone as she did in that hour, jostled by passing maids and manservants as she stood amid the ruins of so many friendships. She had never expected to marry happily, of course not—but somewhere in the back of her mind she had imagined that a trusted maid, at the very least, would walk her to the marriage bed, help her avoid her husband's wrath and assist in the birth of her first child. Now, even amidst so many Calormenes, she felt like a stranger in a foreign land.

She hurried back to her chambers before Khurshid could find her pining away, and the stern-lipped head chambermaid got her situated with a needle and thread and an embroidery hoop. It was really very stupid to be embroidering, she thought bitterly as her fingers worked reflexively and began to form the outlines of her father's lineage, as she doubted she would be alive long enough to see it hung anywhere in the castle.

_Two weeks before the wedding_, she calculated, _and assuming I conceive directly—it is always possible, though I am due for my month's blood soon—it is another nine months if I carry to term…I will deliver in late October. He will not rid himself of me before the child is weaned, or at least before a wet nurse can be found. So if I birth a boy, I could be dead before next Christmas._

"My lady."

Aravis looked up; a footman stood in her doorway. "What is it?"

"His lordship bade me tell you he departs."

She nodded and the man left, closing the door with a soft but final click. As soon as he was gone, she stood slowly, ignoring the furtive looks her maids gave her, and passed to the window. Ideally, her maids would think she pined for her handsome betrothed, but the breath that fogged the windowpane as she watched Khurshid and a few of his weak-chinned friends ride out from the courtyard towards the high gates cursed his very birth. They rode southeast, to Muthill. Lune's winter lodge was northwest several weeks, so Cor would have led them in the opposite direction. "You'll never find them," she whispered.

"What was that, milady?" one of her maids asked.

Aravis turned to look at them, their hair pulled tightly back from their thin, pinched faces. "I merely said a short prayer to the great god Tash, may he be merciful."

This explanation seemed to satisfy them, and they turned back to their needlework.

_What if I birth a girl? I would smother her myself before I let Khurshid lay a hand on her. Would he consider it a mark of my infertility, then? Or would he try again for a boy? Oh, Great Lion—wherever you are—I beg of you, do not let me birth a girl—!_

"My lady?"

Aravis started; the shadows had grown long across the frozen lawn outside her window. The speaker stood expectantly in the doorway, his way barred by the broad shoulders of two guards who waited outside her door (to keep people out or to keep her in?).

"Enter," she said.

The short, thin man came in scraping and bowing. "Milady, I crave the honor of but a moment of your noble time."

"Who are you?"

"I am his lordship's understeward, milady—Bul is my name."

"Speak."

"His noble lordship departed—quite rightly—without giving me instructions," the steward said nervously, his veined hands flitting about each other rather distractingly. "I'm afraid, your noble ladyship, that the stores we brought up from the cellars for the royal party will spoil if not properly dispensed."

Aravis stared at him for a long moment, aware that her maids' eyes rested on her. It made sense, though—with Cor's defection and Khurshid's departure, she was the only one with authority enough to run the castle. With Khurshid gone, she was no slave in a gilded cage—she was a noblewoman with a rich household at her disposal.

"You have my permission to return those stores which are unnecessary to their proper place of storage," she told the understeward in clipped tones. "But I expect to see a detailed index of the pantry stores by the end of the week, recording what was consumed throughout the course of the royal visit and how much is left to last us through winter. I have no doubt it was a weighty expenditure, and I am keen on guaranteeing that there will be food enough for all the household."

Bul bowed so low his nose touched the flagstones. "It will be as my lady commands it."

"You are dismissed."

He backed out of the room, and the guards shut the door behind him.

Aravis felt a tentative warmth begin to blossom in the very coldest, darkest regions of her stomach. "You may leave," she told her maids brusquely. "I will take my dinner in bed tonight."

They looked at each other.

"You have been dismissed," she snapped, and they leapt to their feet and filed out of the room.

The silence that followed after the door shut behind them was delicious. Aravis got up and threw her embroidery into the fire, needle and hoop and all, and watched it catch ablaze and then crumble into ash among the red coals. The heat buffeted her face. She then undressed slowly and crawled into bed with the thickest book on the shelves in her receiving chamber, _In Pursuit of the Crested Cormorant_. It was a mind-numbingly dull treatise on the anatomy and history of the flightless crested cormorant, a bird found only in the northeast and Narnia, but Aravis found it soothing, and she read page after page of descriptions of cormorant feathers.

After a few minutes, she glanced up to see if the sun had fully set yet and saw what appeared to be a cormorant feather floating over her head. (She flinched a little bit.) It was not a feather, though—no, she realized as she stared at it, it was a white fragment tucked into the seam of the velvet that composed the ceiling of her bed.

Instinctively, she stood up on the mattress and took hold of the little scrap; it came out easily between her fingers. It was a bit of paper, folded several times over so it could fit in a small gap left by a lapsed stitch in a place that could only be seen from her pillow.

Aravis unfolded it, still standing on her mattress.

'_M'ldy,_

_'Shall protect him_

_'Didn't leave you friendless_

_'Look to the stables_

_'-Ram'_

She stared at it. The name scrawled on the bottom was clear enough, and she knew for a fact that the note hadn't been where it was when she went to bed the night before. He must have slipped it up there while she slept in the wee hours of the morning: but what did it mean? _Look to the stables_. Did that mean that she was supposed to go searching for a friend hidden somewhere in the haylofts? Was one of the grooms particularly loyal to the crown? Did she have a relative somewhere amongst them?

_Didn't leave you friendless_.

"Stupid," she said aloud as her eyes stung. Why should she cry _now_, of all times!

_Shall protect him_.

She could imagine Ram's booming voice forming the words and a reassuring look peering out from beneath his ginger eyebrows. One of his last pieces of advice to her had been to keep her blade close, like he did—more out of reminiscence than anything else, she reached up and took down the sword in its leather scabbard. How good it felt in her hands, its balance proportioned perfectly to her arm. Oh, how she missed them all!

The doorknob rattled then, and Aravis dropped to a seated position and shoved her sword behind the headboard just as a maid came in with a tray of food. "Are you a'right, milady?" the maid asked.

"Quite," Aravis answered coolly. "I will need no more assistance tonight."

The girl placed the tray on her knees and curtsied her way out of the room.

Aravis laid back and rubbed the note between her fingers, the paper rustling loudly in the silence of her room. _We didn't leave you friendless._

That night, her dreams were of horse races and of soaring high above mountain peaks and of the snapping sounds pennants make in brisk winds. Towards morning, she dreamt that Cor was next to her again; he held her and caressed her and kissed her face and mouth; the dream was so vivid that she woke suddenly from it, breathless and tingling from head to toe and full of grief and confusion. In a few moments, though, the memory of the dream that had made it seem like he had been there—she could almost feel the pressure of his hands around her waist—faded away, and she began to feel simultaneously stupid and rather embarrassed.

Aravis rose from her rumpled bed and dressed silently. The day she emerged into was grey and cold, the silent halls filled with the steady sound of water dripping from the eaves. Now that their lord and guests were all gone, the castle's inhabitants had retreated into their sacred hovels and hidey-holes to play cards and gossip about their master. Aravis had free reign.

She went first down to the stables. The grooms were nowhere to be found, but a small stable boy met her as she crossed the muddy courtyard. "Wha' does m'lady require?" he asked in a thick southerly accent.

"Nothing you can give me," she answered, and let him go back inside.

The stables themselves offered her no clue as to the friend Ram hinted at. She turned Inga's stall upside down, looking for any sort of hint, but the only thing of worth she found in the whole place was Inga herself, who nuzzled her hands and let her rub her velvety nose for a good long while.

When she went back inside, she found that a small lunch had been set for her and Dar's men in the great hall; she ate quickly, before they arrived, and slipped down another corridor when she heard them coming on her way out.

The rest of the day she spent alone in her chambers with that silly cormorant book. Her maids came to bring her supper before it was even dark, but she ate it willingly and allowed them to tuck her into bed with hot water bottles, and she fell heavily into an exhausted slumber.

She did not even leave her bed the next day. What for? She had nothing to do, no one to see, and naught but terrible memories lurking in every corner of the drafty castle. At least in bed she was warm, and the pillow on the left side of the mattress still smelled like the oils Cor's manservants washed his hair with.

On the third day, she was fully intending to stay in bed yet another day when her maids came in quite unannounced and opened the curtains, letting in pale winter sunlight. Aravis shielded her eyes and snapped, "I did not summon you."

The head chambermaid's lips thinned. "His lordship's understeward requests an audience with your ladyship."

"An audience?" Aravis scoffed. "Whatever for?"

"It is not my business, milady."

"No," Aravis answered coolly, "it is not."

They plaited her hair and pinned it tightly to the back of her head in the southern fashion, then helped her climb into the green wool gown Khurshid had given her before Christmas. It was not exactly the sort of dress the lady of the castle should be wearing when conducting household business, but it would have to do, and Aravis left her bedchamber with her chin high.

Bul stood quivering in the doorway, flanked on either side by the guards that were posted there day and night. "Enter," she said, seating herself behind the dark desk that was nestled beneath the largest window. "Do you have my reports?"

"I do, your ladyship," the understeward answered, bowing his way to her desk. He clutched a stack of papers in his bony hands.

Aravis motioned for them, and he laid them on her desk. She took them up and read them carefully; the royal visit had indeed cost the household stores dearly, but there seemed to be a marked disparity in the amount of wine stores. Unless the royal party had finished off an inordinate amount of liquor…

"How much wine was consumed during the royal visit?" she asked Bul.

He squinted as he thought. "The records say roughly forty casks, your ladyship."

"Yes. I see that. How many goblets, would you estimate, are in each cask?"

"Near four 'undred, your ladyship."

"I see. So sixteen thousand goblets of wine were consumed over the course of His Royal Highness's stay?"

"It would appear so."

"Hm. How many days were they here, master steward?"

Bul counted on his fingers. "Er, nigh under six weeks."

"And there were twenty-three of us, including Lord Dar and his men."

"Yes, milady."

Numbers flew through Aravis's head. "If my arithmetic is correct, if the twenty-three members of His Royal Highness's entourage consumed forty casks in forty days, that means that each of us would have had to drink over sixteen full goblets of undiluted wine _each day_, understeward."

Bul gaped at the number.

"Yes," she said. "Sixteen a _day_, when wine of this potency at its full strength would fell a bear after ten."

"Perhaps his lordship's guests overindulged at the feast, milady."

"Perhaps, but I recall many a day when I consumed less than a goblet of wine from sunup to sundown. With only two hundred guests at _Jadida Sa'id_, I find it very hard to believe that they made up for this deficiency, especially when the wine was diluted with water."

Bul flushed, thinking hard about this anomaly.

"You have a thief amongst your underlings, Bul," she said sternly, placing the lists in a drawer.

"A…a what?"

"A _thief_, understeward."

"I—I have _never_ seen such dishonesty," the short man blustered, now looking quite apoplectic. "The _nerve_—my lady, I beg of you, please—please grant me your noble mercy and spare his lordship word of this crime until I have located the source—"

Aravis looked into the steward's wrinkled face and saw in it a hint of the pain and fear she felt. "It is granted," she said. "What will you do?"

"Tear the servant's quarters apart until someone comes forth," he growled.

"I trust that you will bring the offender to me," she answered. "Justice must be done properly."

"It will be done as you say, milady."

She nodded and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. He groveled and scraped his way out, and the guards closed the door behind him. Her maids stared.

Blood rushed behind Aravis's ears, but the sensation felt strangely heady. "How is the king's justice done in this household?" she asked aloud, her voice echoing against the stone walls.

Her maids looked at each other.

"Come now," she said brusquely. "Crimes are punished here. How do their lordships defend the peace?"

"Such is not the purview of ladies," said the head chambermaid with thin lips. She looked at Aravis with evident disapproval.

"Such is indeed the purview of ladies," Aravis answered heatedly. "What I think you mean is that the affairs of noblemen are not the purview of servants such as yourselves."

The woman's eyes went wide, and Aravis swept from the room as whispers filled it. Her guards stiffened as she turned to face them. "How is the king's justice done here?" she asked them.

She saw them glance at each other.

"Your lord's son's betrothed, soon to be your mistress, has spoken to you," she said a bit more loudly. "Or perhaps your helms are too thick to hear her voice."

"His lordship the viscount's son has never held court, m'lady," said the taller guard, his southerly accent faint but noticeable. "I, your ladyship's servant, was but a boy in Muthill when last the lord viscount sat in the seat of his fathers."

Aravis was caught a bit off-guard by this pronouncement. "That long since the Sidrats opened their gates so their people could seek the king's justice? I see. And where is the lord viscount, that I may seek his advice?"

"He is unwell, milady."

"Of that fact I am well aware—his absence speaks volumes. Surely he can find the strength to meet his son's betrothed."

Again, her guards glanced at each other.

"He is quite unlike himself," said the shorter, older guard.

"Take me to him," she insisted.

They looked at each other for a third time, then bowed deeply and set off down the corridor, their light armor jingling in time with the clank of their scabbards against their legs. Aravis folded her hands in front of her and strode along between them.

_Yes_, she thought with a grim sort of delight, _if this castle is to be my tomb, it will be a tomb emblazoned with the king's stag!_

The guards led her up a twisted flight of stairs and across a short covered walkway that connected the east wing with the towers of the north wing, where she had not yet been. A wet, roaring wind buffeted them and sent her skirts flying—they were shockingly high up—but when the guards hesitated, she gave them a level glance and they proceeded.

The north wing was dark and cold; it was clear that few people ventured here, at least not often. The shorter guard took one of the torches that guttered on the wall and carried it with him, as the windows were all shuttered against the wind and the rain. There were a few tapestries here and there on the walls, but unlike the wall hangings in the rest of the castle, these were of the purely Archenlandian kind, frayed and faded from lack of care.

A lone guard stood in front of a closed door. He looked surprised to see them emerging out of the darkness, but he bowed low after a moment.

"I wish to see his lordship the viscount," she said, her voice loud in the dark, empty corridor.

"He is unwell, milady."

Aravis fought back a wave of fury that did not suit the triviality of the guard's offense. "Do you know who I am?" she asked him thinly.

"Ah…aye, milady. You are betrothed to his lordship the viscount's son."

"Indeed," she answered. "And as I act as his lordship the viscount's son's wife, you will let me through to see my new father."

The guard looked over her head at the guards behind her—_gods' teeth_, she swore to herself—but then stood aside and opened the door. "Through the next doorway, your ladyship."

Aravis swept through before he could change his mind. The door shut behind her, and she found herself in a larger version of her own chambers—alas, all the furniture was covered in moth-eaten sheets, and the books on their shelves were so dusty their titles could hardly be read. Age hung in the air like mist, and she scarcely dared to breathe as she moved towards the next door that the guard had indicated.

She rapped on it. "My lord viscount, I beg a moment of your time."

There was nothing but silence.

"My lord viscount?"

"Enter," came a thin voice from within.

Aravis took hold of the handle and pushed the door open; it went with a squeal of unoiled hinges, and she cringed as she stepped into a warm circle of firelight. The bedchamber was large, and the bed magnificent: it had been carved expertly with engravings of boars, the Sidrat sigil.

Propped up on the pillows, though, was a shell of a man. Tyrien Sidrat was shriveled and grey-bearded, and he lay flat on his back, pale eyes unblinking, and stared flatly at the ceiling. It was clear he had been that way for many days.

"A depressing sight, is it not?"

The same voice that had welcomed her in came from a small figure near the fire. It rose, now; another old man, clothed in dark robes, unfolded himself from a chair just to bow to her.

"Indeed," she said rather faintly. "Though I see now why his son has taken his place."

"You must be Lord Khurshid's new lady betrothed. Aravis Tarkheena of province Calavar."

"Yes. And you are?"

"Lorin, master steward of the viscount's house," answered the old man.

"I have not seen you before."

"No, indeed. His lordship the viscount's son has declared me redundant."

"I see."

"I think you do," he answered sagely, squinting up at her. "Do you fear his empty gaze?"

He had caught her staring at the viscount. "No," she answered truthfully. "But I fear what will happen now."

"You sought his wisdom."

"Indeed I did. I seek to carry out the king's justice in the manner of Lord Sidrat's fathers, but there is no one to tell me it."

Lorin sighed. "The halls of the Sidrats have not seen the light of the king's justice in many years, most noble lady. Indeed, when he was still hale, his lordship found himself caught up in the memory of his late wife, and walled himself up in this newfangled castle to mourn her. For years, a twisted cousin of his held court here, but once your noble lord betrothed came of age, he…executed his own justice."

"I see," Aravis said coolly, resenting that the old man's watery eyes were fixed on her bruised nose and mouth.

"But I remember the ways of the old days," Lorin went on.

Aravis did not answer.

"Before Tyrien took his seat as lord, the Sidrats upheld the king's justice so purely that no law held within the house's walls that did not originate from the king's own hand. The Sidrats considered themselves the royal family's staunchest supporters, a bastion of loyalty in the south."

Aravis could feel her blood growing hot, coursing through her veins like a river of fire. _They are terrified of their master's son_. "I see," she said again, straightening. "I thank you for your time, master steward. I will be discreet about this meeting, you may rest assured."

Lorin nodded and bowed to her as she turned and strode from the room.

The next day Aravis summoned the castle seamstress and ordered three new gowns: two in sturdy cotton, dyed deep blue and lined with fur to keep her warm, and a third in thick wool with a skirt cut full enough for riding.

"What color would you have it, milady?" the seamstress asked.

"A dark green," she answered evenly, making sure her maids could overhear. "But a specific shade…I want it vert, you see."

"Vert, milady?"

"Yes, vert. A dark green. The color of the royal sigil, if you will."

The seamstress nodded and curtsied herself out. Aravis sat back in her seat and began embroidering a cleft hoof of the leaping stag that would soon dance across her cotton swath; her maids were whispering, and it made her smile.

"Genna," she said smoothly, effectively ceasing the hissing.

"Your ladyship?" said the head chambermaid through her teeth.

"Fetch me the master steward."

The maid did not budge from her seat. "His lordship the viscount's son expressly forbade the man to set foot in the east wing."

"I will not tolerate a serving woman telling me what my lord betrothed did and did not say. Fetch the master steward, immediately."

Genna fixed a furious gaze on her, but Aravis received it gladly. Hatred felt good. She welcomed the woman's spite, turned it outward again with renewed vigor. _Tempt me. I dare you._

The woman finally got up, though, and Aravis watched her stalk from the room with a touch of disappointment. She knew Genna was spying on her for Khurshid—all her servants were spying on her for Khurshid, but Genna was particularly bad at it, and therefore must be more important. _Well then,_ she thought gleefully, _I am giving you plenty of fodder_!

When Lorin arrived, he seemed to tremble a little at being summoned so summarily. "Ah, master steward," Aravis said, rising to her feet when Genna brought him in. "I will not keep you long."

"I am at your command, my lady."

"First, I lift this ridiculous sanction on you—you may be free to move about the castle as you so desire."

"What will his lordship the viscount's son say?"

"Leave me to deal with my lord betrothed, master steward."

"Pardon, milady."

"Second, I wish to hold open court every afternoon beginning straightaway tomorrow, so that any member of the Sidrat household and holdings may bring their grievances forth to be dealt with."

"My lady…"

"I trust that you will see to the arrangements? I desire that the villages in fealty to this house be made aware of this opportunity and that they have safe passage to travel here. I believe the court chambers must be opened."

Lorin bowed so low she could almost hear his joints creaking. "Merciful lady, it will be as you say."

"Do what you must, master steward, and we thank you for your time. You may go."

He did so, and Aravis, feeling nearly giddy, turned to go back to her needlework when she saw Genna out of the corner of her eye. "Sit down, Genna," she said.

"No," said Genna.

The other maids gasped a little, but Aravis had scarcely registered their alarm before she felt her right hand snapping out and making sharp contact with Genna's angular jaw. The woman staggered to the side. Aravis felt nothing, other than a stinging sensation in her palm. What a strange feeling—to feel nothing. Even her anger was gone; she floated along inside herself aimlessly.

"Hag," she said coldly. "Report that to your master, hmm? Now sit down and finish your needlework. I will not tolerate any more insolence from you today."

The older woman sat down in her seat like a scolded child, and Aravis returned to her needlework, humming the tune without a name.

The next few days Aravis spent seated on a hard stone throne in the court chamber. Lorin had found her a thin cushion to sit on, but even the padding could not soften the purposefully uncomfortable chair; that was the idea, though—ruling should not come easy. Still, her back and shoulders ached through hours and hours of complaints, big and small. By then the swelling around her nose had gone down, but she could still feel the stares of the grubby commonfolk who stooped and scraped on the cold stone floor and brought her their grievances.

So-and-so stole so-and-so's nanny goat. So-and-so's house caught afire and is in need of new thatching. And so on, and so forth. Aravis found exercising her future father-in-law's power a bit unnerving—not because she was unused to it, but because it required such stern practicality. The Sidrats had no extra coin that could be wasted on mercy. The peasant whose home burned was turned away empty-pursed, but he was granted free access to whatever straw he could salvage from that which had been gathered from the floor of the great hall. Thieves she sentenced to be flogged or jailed, depending on the value of the item stolen; two adulterers she sent away with heavy fines; and she had one man locked in the stocks for whipping a neighbor's mule until it died.

By night she worked on her tapestry: it was to be a grand piece, not large but ornate, depicting the stag, the sigil of Cor's house, dancing on the sigils of all the lesser houses as grass sprouted from between them. It would decorate her firstborn's cradle, if she lived long enough to ensure it.

On the ninth day of Khurshid's absence, Aravis was just raising a hand to signal to Lorin that she was finished with the day's petitioners when footsteps and a shout rang out in the hall outside. The guards drew their swords, but there was no need; Bul came stomping into the chamber, dragging behind him a short, thin lad with a bleary gaze.

"Your ladyship, ma'am," Bul said, tossing the boy at her feet.

"Understeward," she acknowledged. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You ins'ructed me to bring forth t'wine thief when I rooted him ou', milady."

"So I did. Is this him?"

"Aye."

"And how do you know?"

Bul gave the young man a swift kick and looked at him with distaste. "Sev'ral witnesses, me wife included, saw 'im sellin' the barrels to passin' commoners," he said. "T'money was found in 'is mattress an' he stinks of wine."

"Oh?" she answered, leaning forward to look the boy in the face. He wasn't so young, now that she got a good look at him; he was no younger than she, at the very least. "And who were these commoners he sold to?"

"No one knows," Bul said with a shrug. "Reg'lar traveler-types, me wife says, red cloths 'round their noses to ward again' the cold…real ord'nary, otherwise."

Aravis felt cold, then hot, then cold again, and she fixed the accused with a piercing stare. "Name?"

"Jock the butcher's boy," Bul said repugnance.

"And what do you have to say for yourself, Jock?" she ground out.

Jock looked up at her, his dirty face twisted with loathing, and spat at her feet. "And I'd do it again, too!"

The guards were already hauling him up before Aravis even thought to raise a hand for them. She rose to her feet, too, the stone platform she stood on allowing her to tower over him. "Stealing from your lord is indefensible," she said coolly, her voice echoing in the breathless silence of the chamber. "But stealing from your future king? Unpardonable. In the name of the lord viscount, I hereby sentence you to fifteen lashes and a stay of thirty days in the castle gaol. Guards, escort the prisoner to the courtyard."

The maids and manservants who had gathered in the wings to watch the day's proceedings began to whisper amongst themselves. Quite a few looked pleased, though, and Aravis had the distinct feeling that Jock had gone unpunished for quite some time.

"Are you going to watch the proceedings, milady?" Lorin asked, trotting along behind her as she swept from the court chambers.

"No," Aravis answered, resisting the urge to rub her aching back. "I find myself quite tired. How does his lordship fare?"

"Same as always, your ladyship. If you are in need of any poppy oil for the pain…"

"Thank you, master steward, but I shall be all right."

Lorin bowed deeply and went away, and Aravis proceeded to her chambers alone—or nearly; she could hear the faint jingle of armor as her guards followed at a discrete distance. She rather liked having them around, even though she knew their sole purpose was to keep her captive. They remembered the old days, she could tell; they no longer argued with her when she went to sit at old Lord Tyrien's bedside, and often one would bring her a meal when she let time slip away from her.

When she reached her chambers, her maids were already there, settling down with their elementary sewing and gossiping under their breath. Usually Aravis ignored them, but there seemed to be fewer than normal, and she counted briefly before turning to them and saying, "Where is Genna?"

The women ceased their whispering at once, looking at her with the same swiveling motions of their heads. "Don't you know, milady?" one squeaked.

"Clearly I don't," Aravis retorted irritably.

They all looked highly uncomfortable. "Genna is—" one started awkwardly. "She is watching…the _proceedings_…in the courtyard, your ladyship."

"Whatever for? Her duties are here."

The maids looked at each other, then back at their sewing.

"Tell me," Aravis snapped.

"The t-thief," stuttered the youngest. "Jock, the butcher's boy—he is her son."

"I see," Aravis answered. What an unexpected boon. If Genna learned even a jot from watching her son receive the king's justice, it would all have been worth it. _Take _that_ back to your master. Tell him the king sent you this time._

It was nearly dinnertime several days later when Aravis's solitude was interrupted by a sudden hammering on her door.

"Enter," she called with a slight laugh, pressing a hand to her chest as her heart pounded unsteadily with the surprise.

Lorin stumbled past the guards as they opened the door for him. "Pardon my intrusion, your ladyship—"

The poor old man was wheezing heavily, and Aravis hurried across the room to help him into a chair. "You've been running," she said disapprovingly. "Let me get you some wine to recover with."

He grabbed her hand to stop her. "No, m'lady," he panted, his thin, pockmarked face red with exertion. "I've just come—to warn you that your—l-lord betrothed is returned."

Just like that, Aravis felt the blood drain from her head. All the strength she had been building up inside herself melted away with those simple words, and she hated herself for it. "Oh," she said faintly. "I see."

Lorin looked up at her with pity. "You are a force to be reckoned with, my lady, a fortress of mighty stone, but even the strongest bulwark cannot weather all storms."

"Then we must brace ourselves for a windy night," she answered. "Thank you for your time, master steward. I count myself lucky to have been served so well."

"I am forever your servant, your ladyship."

With that, Lorin left, and the guards gave Aravis fleeting looks that might have been construed as regretful. As soon as the door shut, though, she scrambled to ring for her maids. There was no time to lose.

When they arrived, Aravis had already begun to brush out her hair. "My lord betrothed is returned to me," she said. "I need to dress for dinner."

"Which gown, milady?" one asked.

"The green one."

They all hesitated, glancing between her and Genna, who stood white-lipped nearby, but Aravis stared back. "What," she said, "have you all been taken ill? Fetch the green gown and robe me."

"Your ladyship will regret that decision," Genna said evenly.

Her voice made Aravis's blood run cold. "Are you threatening me, Genna?"

"No," Genna said with a smile. "Merely observing that green does not suit your coloring."

"Robe me," she retorted.

They dressed her in the gown and put gold baubles in her ears and a gold belt around her waist. There was no doubt about it, she thought as they plaited and pinned her hair at the back of her neck, that she was the king's, through and through.

"I will not be requiring your assistance tonight," she said, and dismissed them. When the room was empty, she stood before her mirror and stared at her reflection for a few minutes, gazing at her youthful, healthy body. The black eye Khurshid had given her was now a faint yellow, hardly noticeable in the candlelight, and she relished the fierce look she was giving herself. It would surely be the last time she would see it, at least unaccompanied by injuries.

Her guards escorted her down to dinner. Aravis was ambivalent about their presence; one moment, they seemed like a protective wall around her, and the next she felt like they were marching her to her own execution. Their refusal to make eye contact with her did not help matters. When she saw the massive oaken doors of the great hall and hesitated, though, they fell back to keep pace and walked alongside her every step of the way.

"Is his lordship at table?" she asked the footman at the door, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"No, milady," answered the footman, "but his excellence Lord Dar is."

"Thank you."

The door swung open and she stepped through.

Dar rose to his feet when he saw her. "Lady Aravis, what a pleasure it is to see you again!" The ebullient greeting did not reach his eyes. "What a lovely bride you shall make. Tell me, how many days is it?"

"Three," she answered, seating herself at one end of the table. Several of Dar's men were already tearing at the food.

"Only three…goodness, I remember when you were a little twig of a thing still, all fiery temper and sharp tongue. Little has changed."

Aravis did not find the familiar jab as funny as she used to.

"I'm afraid I haven't thought of a suitable wedding present yet. That horse of yours I gave you when you turned sixteen is still the best-suited gift I've ever given, and I can't fathom how I could possibly top that."

She smiled faintly. "Where is my lord betrothed?"

"Oh, Khurshid?" Dar waved his hand vaguely. "Business, I shouldn't wonder. Locked away in his study with a few servants. Shouldn't be long."

The hand that held her fork was trembling, and she tucked it in her lap and reached for her wine with the other. "How was your trip?"

"Boring, to be quite honest," Dar said with a yawn. "His lordship wanted to do nothing but drink and whore and sleep."

"I would have thought that was your idea of a good time."

"Usually," he answered unabashedly, "but I am rather keen on finding out where Their Royal Highnesses buggered off to so rudely."

"Did you not hear word of them?" she asked.

He sighed. "Not a whit, at least in Muthill. I wasn't particularly expecting to, as His Highness did say something about traveling to the winter hunting lodge afterwards, didn't he?"

Aravis feigned ignorance and shrugged. "I don't recall such a decision being made. Wouldn't you think they would start heading north, rather than west? It is going to be spring soon enough, and Cor must be back in Anvard by mid-May."

Dar shrugged. "You may be right. But you are telling me that His Highness sent you no word?"

"We did not part on the best of terms," she murmured, playing with the food on her plate.

"Hotheaded young men," Dar sighed fondly. "Take no notice of it. You will soon enough be occupied with your own matters!"

Before Aravis had a chance to reply, the great oak doors swung open and admitted two unfamiliar guards. Dar turned in his seat. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked with a little irritation in his voice. "You interrupt your ladyship's dinner?"

"His lordship the viscount's son requests the presence of his lady betrothed," said one guard stiffly.

"For what purpose?" Dar argued, but Aravis stood up.

"Let it be, Lord Dar," she said calmly. "I will go with them."

Dar watched with puzzlement as she laid her napkin aside and went with the guards. Even as they closed the massive doors behind her with a final clank, she could feel his eyes on the back of her head. It bothered her little. After all, it had only been a matter of time before Khurshid heard of her exploits. He would not be pleased with her at all.

The guards brought her directly to Khurshid's study and knocked on the door.

"Enter," came Khurshid's voice.

Aravis swallowed hard as they opened the door for her and shut it as soon as she had stepped all the way through. The click of the latch slipping into place echoed in the silence of the study. Khurshid sat behind his massive desk, face an unreadable mask, with Genna standing nearby.

"Approach," he said.

Aravis was forced to walk the length of the room while they watched, the swish of her skirts sounding impossibly loud. "It is a pleasure to see you back safely, my lord betrothed," she said carefully.

Khurshid watched her over the tips of the fingers he had tented in front of his mouth. "I don't think so."

"Pardon me?"

"I don't think it really is a pleasure to you to see me back, my lady betrothed."

"Whatever gives you cause to think that?" she stammered, willing herself to keep her gaze fixed on Khurshid's face and not let her eyes flick to Genna's.

"I have heard reports," Khurshid answered, sitting forward to lean on his desk. "Rumors of poor comportment on your part while I was away. It seems to me that you rather _liked_ having me gone. Sitting on my throne and ruling in my name…"

"They are false," she retorted. "I did nothing outside the purview of my status as your betrothed wife."

"Ah," Khurshid said softly, "but you forget, _again_." The last word came snapping out of his mouth like a harsh slap. "You are not a barbarian any longer, Lady Aravis, but my betrothed lady wife. As my wife, you belong to me—you are a member of my household, and you are bound to my laws."

"As you are bound to the king's," she blurted out.

Khurshid straightened. "I see. You have made your alliances quite clear, I think, especially with that horrendous gown." He rose from his desk, and Aravis fell back a step despite herself. "Tell me, Lady Aravis, how deeply are you devoted to the king?"

"As deeply as I can be, milord," she answered nervously.

"Hmm. And does that loyalty extend to the bedchamber?"

Her breath was coming shallowly now, her throat tight with fear. "I—I don't know what you mea—"

Khurshid slammed his fist on the desk, striking it so hard that an inkwell leapt off it and shattered on the stone floor. "I mean, _Lady Aravis_, did you fuck the old man too, or just his sons?"

His words took her entirely by surprise, and she was speechless for a few moments. "Who—what _vile rumors_—"

"Aha," Khurshid laughed coldly, "but they are not rumors. You were seen with the slave prince the very night of our betrothal, and—remind me, mistress Genna, what exactly my lady betrothed was doing?"

Genna stepped forward, the drab brown of her skirts catching the orange light of the fire until she looked like she was ablaze herself. She cleared her throat. "Her ladyship disrobed herself, your lordship sire, an' let the prince touch 'er places, sire. She kissed 'im an' let 'im fuck 'er against a wine barrel, sire, an' she moaned like a whore the whole while."

"Thank you," said Khurshid. "So you see my quandary, my lady. You will not let me into your bedchamber at night, and yet you willingly open your legs to any skinny barbarian who happens by?"

"It's not true," Aravis rasped desperately. "No, no! That never happened, my lord! I am a virgin, entirely yours—"

"So you deny spending any time with His Highness in the wine cellar?" Khurshid said with a detached interest that chilled Aravis's blood. She could not answer. "Hmm," he said. "Interesting."

"This is preposterous," she said forcefully. "You take the word of a serving-woman over that of your own betrothed wife, a lady of noble blood?"

Khurshid looked at her for a moment, and then looked at Genna for another. "Yes," he said after a pause. "You see, old Genna here has served me well since I was a boy, haven't you, Genna? I'm sorry, Lady Aravis, but you simply can't understand—a man has a special bond with the woman who procured him his first whore."

The old bag curtsied to him. "You was nigh on twelve winters, milord."

"Yes, and you saw my needs before Father even guessed at them. Good woman." He turned back to Aravis, the corner of his lip turning up a bit in distaste. "I suppose that doddering old fool Lorin helped you, didn't he?"

"No," she spluttered, "the master steward had nothing to do with this. He is innocent—leave him out of it, milord, I beg you!"

"Oh dear," said Khurshid, and Aravis felt the ground warp under her feet. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. You see, Lady Aravis, I may have a weakness for whores in the street, but I simply cannot _abide _the thought of taking one as a wife. Come with me a moment, I wish to illustrate my point."

She didn't even have a chance to take his outstretched arm before he had seized her shoulder in that awful iron grip and dragged her after him. His long legs made massive strides, so she had to jog to keep up, one hand scrambling to lift her green skirts out of the way so she wouldn't trip. The sounds of Dar's men eating in the great hall taunted her; for some outrageous reason, her stomach growled with hunger.

Khurshid led her out to the courtyard where she had last seen Cor and Corin box; it was growing dark now, and cold, and the flaming light from the great hall and the corridors inside spilled flickering firelight onto the slick stones as the hiss of a whip reverberated against the castle walls. For a peculiar moment, Aravis thought that time had warped and that she and Khurshid were looking out upon the punishment of the wine thief, Genna's son, but then as her eyes adjusted, she realized that the huddling figure tied to the whipping-post with his back laid open by the scourge was not Jock the stocky laboring boy, but rather Lorin, his long white beard tinged with blood.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aravis cried. "He is _innocent_! Stop!" She shook free of Khurshid's grasp and made to run out into the courtyard.

He was too quick for her, though, and caught her elbow as she passed. "Not so fast, Lady Aravis," he said smoothly. "Let's watch for a bit. I want you to learn something."

The scourge landed on the master steward's back with a wet smacking sound, and the old man screamed. Aravis felt nauseous. _This is my fault. All my fault_. The man didn't even have a sympathetic audience—it was just her, Khurshid, Genna, two strange guardsmen, and the gaoler who had been charged with the task of whipping the man who had served the Sidrats longer than any of them had been alive.

"Please," she whispered. "Make it stop."

"A moment longer," Khurshid said softly, and she looked up at him. He was gazing at the scene before them with a lustful gleam in his eye.

"_Now_," she shrieked. "Stop, in the name of the king!"

This got Khurshid's attention. He raised a hand, and the gaoler dropped the scourge that he was just about to bring down across Lorin's back. "Interesting," he said to Aravis, who felt close to weeping. "You call upon the name of your lover's father."

"He is _innocent_," Aravis spat. "And you are a monster—no wonder you do not heed the king's laws, for they are too good for the likes of you."

Khurshid nodded with interest. "I see what you mean, my dear lady. Punishing the innocent is hardly a mark of a gentleman. Do you agree?"

She was breathing heavily with the force of her emotion, but Khurshid's tone made her leery all of a sudden. "Yes," she said.

"Good." He motioned to the guards. "Then I shall punish the true offender."

Suddenly, two pairs of leather-sheathed hands clamped down on Aravis's arms. She gasped despite herself. "Unhand me this instant," she squeaked, her knees going weak with fright.

"Perhaps you will find yourself more amenable to my laws when we are through," Khurshid said, and motioned to the guards.

They dragged her into the courtyard.

_No_, she thought in a haze of panic, kicking out and writhing in their grip. _No, this—this cannot be happening—I am a _lady, _a tarkheena, a ward of the king, and I—_

A scream wrenched itself from her throat and echoed loudly. "_Please_,_ no! Have mercy!"_

The guards held her tightly as they waited for a few grubby manservants to cut Lorin loose and drag him away. Aravis screamed again and thrashed about, kicking out until dirt and pebbles flew in the air under her scrambling feet. Still the guards dragged her forward.

"_In the name of the Lion—of Tash—anyone—_please, _please_, Khurshid, forgive me! I won't ever do it again! Please! I will give you a son—anything—please, have mercy—"

The guards forced her to her knees so hard that her head slammed against the post and knocked her dizzy. She became vaguely aware of a small crowd gathering in the wings, gazing down at her from windows and whispering to each other, and she screamed for help and mercy again, even as the guards wrenched her arms forward and locked her wrists in the rusty manacles. No one came forward.

_N__o one else understands what it's like to be made unhuman, to be reduced to a mere animal, stripped of one's pride and one's dignity and one's__name__—to be__nothing._

She clung to the chains that bound her hands together as one of the guards reached down and tore her gown so the soft flesh of her back was exposed to the cold air. There was a brief murmur when the audience saw the three long, jagged scars that already existed.

"Let this be a warning to you all," came Khurshid's voice, ringing out into the stillness of the night air. "I brook no disobedience, no disloyalty. Liars and pretenders are not welcome here—not even the king's whore."

Aravis lifted her head to protest, but before she could even form the words, a streak of orange fire lit across her shoulders. The pain was all-encompassing; it swelled in her chest and threatened to burst, and the only outlet it had was through her mouth, in a long, ragged scream that seemed to turn her inside out. Again the pain came, and again, as the leather whip with its long leather members wrapped around her shoulders and ribs. Tears poured down her face, the salt burning her lips and trickling down her neck; they had come unbidden, and still they flowed as though completely unconnected to the rest of her body.

Eventually—years later, it felt like—the whip stopped coming down on her flesh. It seemed unbelievable. She could feel the hot blood trickling down her back, and she was barely able to stay upright, even clinging to her chains, but she was conscious, alive, and gradually the sounds and sensations of the scene pierced through the haze of pain that surrounded and filled her.

"Let her down," she heard Khurshid say. A moment later, she heard the jangle of keys, and one of the guards released her from the manacles. She fell hard on the cobblestones to a groan of sympathy from the crowd. _Small comfort from false friends._

"The king…will hear of this," she panted, trying to wipe her face dry with a shaking hand. "You are—a cruel man—a _beast_."

"And yet you agreed to marry me," Khurshid said blithely. "And marriage comes with certain obligations, does it not? Guards, bring my lady betrothed to her bedchamber."

They had to lift her bodily from the ground; her legs would not cooperate. The strain their grip placed on her back made her cry out afresh. "Please," she whimpered, "have mercy on me…please…" She didn't know who she was referring to.

Somehow, the guards managed to drag her to her bedchamber. Aravis was near fainting by the time they were opening her door; the pain in her back had expanded to constitute her entire world, and she scarcely noticed when the men laid her on her bed fully clothed and face down so she would not smear blood on her sheets.

_I never, ever thought I'd be a slave again—I always thought that I'd fall on my sword, leap from a high window,__anything__to avoid it—but__bloody fucking hell__, they didn't even give me that chance and it was my own damn fault…_

Each breath came belabored and ragged. Tears—real tears, this time—crowded Aravis's eyes, but she clung to her pillow and let each breath out in a long, slow groan, and the tears held back.

_Let it be over quickly._

The door swung open and shut, but she didn't bother looking up to see who it was; she could hear him unbuckling his trousers already. "Perhaps we'll have reached a point of compromise after tonight," Khurshid said from behind her. "You do what I wish, when I wish it, and you'll have no more trouble."

Anger—was it anger? It seemed so far away—stirred inside her, but she said nothing.

"Think of it this way," he continued. "If I do my husbandly duty tonight and stick a son in your belly, I'll never darken the door of your bedchamber again. Truth be told, though, I wish to see what it is about your twat that His Royal Highness the slave prince found so alluring."

The mattress buckled slightly as he climbed up behind her. An icy dagger of fear slipped behind her navel, but she couldn't have moved away in time even if she had wanted to; Khurshid gripped her thighs and forced them apart. She cried out.

"Keep quiet," he grunted. "No reason the whole castle has to hear."

"Please, no," she whimpered, trying to squirm out of his grip, but he wrenched one hand behind her back until she was writhing in pain, grasping for something, _anything_, but otherwise utterly immobilized. "Let me heal first, _please_, m'lord," she begged, "_please—_"

Her hand closed on hard steel.

The cold metal startled her. It was such a stark contrast to the heat and pain and smothering fear of feeling Khurshid's full weight on her left wrist as he fumbled with his laces that for a moment, she thought she was dreaming it. Even then, as her fingers curled around the leather hilt, her befuddled brain struggled to recognize the feel of her sword against her palm. The brass lion's head was heavy in her fist. Who had put it there, just behind the headboard?

_I did_.

"_Get away_," she snarled.

"Quiet, you whore. I am lord of Zohra." He pushed her skirts up.

She took advantage of his momentary distraction and brought one of her knees up under her chest, pushing off the feather mattress until she faced him, her bleeding back against the headboard; the momentum of her movement pulled her blade free of its sheath. The northern steel gleamed in the firelight, casting weird flickers across Khurshid's otherwordly face. "I don't care about your lordship," she said coolly. If her mouth hadn't been so dry, she would have spat in his face. "Come any closer, and I'll take your head as a bride gift."

Khurshid stared at her, crouched over her legs with his trousers undone. For a moment, he looked like he was going to back away: any sane man would have, when faced with such sharp steel. But he was hardly sane. In one fluid motion, he reached up to seize the hilt and wrench it from Aravis's shaking hand, and she grabbed a fistful of his hair and thrust her sword into his throat.

She did not expect the blade to slide under his jaw as easily as it did. Dark blood, so red it was almost black, welled up around the steel as she pressed it further down, but flesh and bone parted before it like butter.

"This is the king's justice," she said calmly as he gurgled, spattering her face with blood, and clutched at her with quivering hands. "Or maybe it's just my justice. I really don't know anymore."

Blood poured from his mouth and nose, foaming a bit at the edges. His hands convulsed again. The dark eyes that stared wildly at her now, though, were glassy and empty. He was dead—the whole process had taken less than a minute.

She pulled her sword out with a slick crackling sound and Khurshid slumped forward. With her blade free, blood poured from the gaping wound like a fountain and soaked her skirts, where the dark red blended in with the stains that had come from her. With strangely still hands, she wiped the steel clean on her linens, the bits of flesh mixed with the blood showing starkly against the white cloth. Silence reigned.

Aravis gazed down at the corpse she had created. He lay perfectly still on her bed, facedown in the feather mattress like a common drunkard. She turned away with disgust.

Unsteadily, she got to her feet. She could still feel her own blood trickling down her back from the lash wounds, but the pain seemed miles away, and she found herself walking from the room and towards the heavy door that led out into the corridor. Guards stood just outside it, she knew, and it was only a matter of time before they found their lord's silence worth investigating. The hand she reached out to lift the latch was stained with blood.

Indeed, her guards stood on either side of the door. They bowed to her as she came out, but did not spare her ravaged, bloody appearance a second glance. She cleared her throat. "His lordship…" she said unevenly.

"Haven't seen 'im, my lady," said one. "We replaced 'is guards ages ago. Would presume 'e's gone to bed, wouldn't you?"

The other guard agreed.

Aravis stared at them. "No, he's in—"

"His study," said the other guard with a nod. "Per'aps you're righ', milady."

"But I've kill—"

"You look a bit ragged, milady," said the tall one, "if you don't min' the presumption. Per'aps a long walk outside woul' do you good? Or a ride? The grooms say you've got a lovely bit of horse."

"Oh, aye," the other echoed. "The moon's come out, if you please, milady. Almost bright as daylight—perfect for a short ride to clear your 'ead."

They were staring intently at her, and somehow, through the fog of shock and pain, Aravis realized that they were trying to _help her_.

"Oh," she said faintly.

"Me ol' lady is a cook for 'is lordship," the short guard went on. "'M sure if'n you wanted a midnight snack a'fore you left, she cou' supply you."

"Yes," Aravis said. "Yes, that is a very good idea. Let me…change my gown."

"'S a bit nippy," one called as she went to close the door. "'d bring me warmest cloak, if'n I was you."

She did as they told her. After throwing a bloody sheet over Khurshid's body so his empty eyes would not follow her through the room, she peeled her torn, bloody dress off and replaced it with her warmest wool. The pain made her eyes water, but, then again, when one was fleeing for one's life, what did it matter? Her satchels, crusted and stiff with dirt, were still in her wardrobe where she had left them, and she shoved the little she owned into them with shaking hands. Her sword she belted around her waist and drew her fur-lined cloak tight about her shoulders so it was hidden.

The guards were waiting for her when she came out. "I'll stay 'ere," said the short one. "In case anyone wants ter go pokin' about a'fore you come back."

"Come wi' me, milady," said the taller one. "'ll get you to th' stables. Sent word down ter have your horse saddled."

"What will happen to Lorin?" she asked in a thin voice.

"You leave Lorin ter us, milady. He were a grea' friend to many o' us in our youths."

Aravis nodded and followed him at a run. He led her down to the stables by the claustrophobic servants' stairways, and she nearly pitched down the slick steps a few times before catching herself with stained hands.

Inga was nearly ready when they arrived. The tall guard took her satchel and ran off to the kitchens while a thin groom helped her buckle the rest to Inga's saddle. "Goin' for a shor' ride, milady?" he asked her, slipping the bit between Inga's teeth.

"Yes," she answered.

"Godspeed."

He helped her up into the saddle, giving her a moment to rest when the pain between her shoulders reached a piercing level as she settled down. Inga whinnied and tossed her head as the tall guard came running back with a satchel bulging with food.

"Why are you being so good to me?" Aravis asked.

The groom finished buckling the last satchel onto Inga's saddle and looked at the tall man beside him. "Because, milady," said the guard, "you were good to us."

With that, he laid a sharp slap on Inga's rump, and Aravis was nearly jolted from the saddle as Inga sprang into motion, icy mud slinging up from her hooves. They thundered from the keep through the open gate, and soon the castle melted into the dark silence of the forest.

She was an outlaw now.


	67. Chapter Sixty-Seven

_Chapter Sixty-Seven_

_Edited 7/9/13_

The night was long and dark. A heavy fog rolled in from the distant southern mountains, cold tendrils of mist drifting ghostlike through the reaching branches of the dormant trees that clustered for miles and miles in the moist, dark soil. Aravis and Inga pounded under and amongst them. The only sounds Aravis could hear were theirs, the loudness of their panting breaths and the thundering of Inga's hooves on the cold ground and the clang of bronze and steel as Aravis's sword rattled against her side. Inga rode wildly, almost uncontrollable. She shied away from the hard-packed, dry surface of the road that led north, so Aravis guided her through the underbrush, aiming her towards the tip of the sword that Beomia the Warrioress held in her outstretched arm and hoping it would take them in the right direction.

_Whatever the right direction is._

She hardly cared. Away from Zohra, away from her bedchamber, away from that stiff corpse with the dreadful following eyes—all she wanted. But they followed her through the night nonetheless.

Near dawn, it began to rain. The water mingled with the sweat that had broken out on Aravis's brow and dribbled down the back of her neck. It made everything slick—the ground, the saddle, the leather between her frigid fingers. Inga pounded on. Each step jarred Aravis and made her cry out in pain: she could feel heat and swelling creeping across her shoulders. "I can't," she gasped out desperately, dragging back on the reins, but Inga wrenched the bit free and went on.

Aravis felt the fall coming before she even began to slip from the saddle. Her foot fell from the stirrup first, the sole slick with rainwater, but she had no strength to lift it and put it back in; then her grip on the reins seemed to loosen and she realized that she could hardly feel her fingers.

Suddenly, Inga sidestepped a low-hanging branch, and Aravis was weightless for an eternity before landing hard on her left arm near the exposed roots of a dying evergreen. It was an enormous tree, its greying trunk soaring so high that it disappeared into the mists above her head.

After a long moment, she realized that she was wailing with each wheezing breath and that Inga was skittering on the slippery ground nearby and whinnying nervously. Aravis buried her face in the wet pine needles. She _was_ pain—there was no better way to describe it. She had thought that being beaten and lashed was pain, but she now would have preferred those sharp, short pricks to the angry hot fire that seemed to consume her very flesh. Her limbs felt miles away, but the fire was immediate.

"Inga," she rasped. Her voice seemed muffled, as though there was a thick pillow trying to mute her. The reins trailed past her in the muck, and she seized hold of them with stiff fingers and hauled herself into a sitting position. Inga went quiet.

With all the strength she had left, Aravis removed the heavy saddle and dumped it, along with all her clanking satchels, onto the ground so that the animal could rest. _Rest_, she thought sardonically, pulling her damp cloak tightly about her shivering frame and looking out at the dark, silent forest through a haze of tears.

She curled up on the cold ground with her head on the saddle. Inga nosed around for a long time, her ears flicking wildly, but then shuffled over to where Aravis lay and, after a long moment, dropped to her knees with a loud sigh. Aravis relaxed a bit. If her horse felt safe enough to lay down here, in the cold fog and darkness, then a few hours of rest would not do her harm, either. She closed her eyes somehow dropped almost immediately into the warm abyss of sleep.

The world was red and dripping and screaming when she awoke. Blood rushed across the forest floor like a raging river, frothing and bubbling and screeching loud like a living thing. Aravis was an island in it. She stood waist-deep in the hot, thick stream and trailed her hands in it as her skirts grew sodden and clung to her ravaged skin. The scream that was ringing in her ears grew louder and louder. Her throat burned, and the crimson tide swelled and dragged her under.

Suddenly, she realized that the screaming she heard was her own. She came to herself in a blink. The rush of blood was gone; she was still curled up in her dampened cloak under the dying evergreen. She could see in the weak daylight that her hands were stretched out in front of her, and she sat up, panting, and looked at the dried blood that was encrusted around her nails and smeared across the backs of her knuckles. Her stomach roiled.

_I killed a man._

A cold, dry wind swept through the lofty branches of the trees around her, showering her with sharp pine needles. She flinched instinctively and choked on the unsteady breath that wheezed in and out of her aching lungs. Her entire body seemed foreign, familiar in its shape and smell but at the same time belonging to someone else, and it was rebelling against her.

She slipped a dirty hand under the hem of her collar. The skin of her back and shoulders was cold and moist, and she could feel resistance under her fingertips as dried blood and other fluids scraped away beneath her nails. She put her fingers against hot ragged edges of flesh and found them swollen and sore to the touch. No wonder it had hurt so to ride.

Inga nosed her shoulder, but Aravis was trapped in the dark pits of her mind and scarcely noticed until the beast applied teeth. She shrieked in alarm, and Inga laid her ears back and snorted indignantly.

_I killed a man. A real, living man._

Somehow, Aravis found her way to her feet. The world spun beneath her, but the thought of eating, of feeding the rush of blood that could come coursing down the hill behind her at any moment, made her feel ill, so she heaved the saddle up out of the dirt and put it on Inga's back. Now that the sun had risen, the body she left would certainly have been found, and the road that she and Inga were trying to follow would get busier. Word would spread quickly. A lord, his father an invalid with no other offspring, murdered in his bed and his young foreign bride missing. Soon speculation would become rumor would become truth, and the countryside would know that she had killed him. The king's justice was weak in that part of the kingdom, and the people there did not tolerate women who killed.

_He would have raped and murdered me!_

_But I have no way to prove it_.

They would have to go fast, moving in the shadows of the forest and avoiding all contact with strangers on their way north. Or should she go west, to the wild lands of the clans, those paint-streaked descendants of the First Men? No Archenlanders ventured there; only the marcher lords were brave and foolish enough to spend their lives patrolling the boundary between civilized and uncivilized, gentle and brutal. She rummaged in one of her satchels with a shaking hand until her fingertips made contact with the smooth coolness of the mahogany box, then pulled it free and took out the bronze compass Lune had given her for Christmas. It was beautiful, glinting in the weak winter daylight, but she threw away the box with its purple silk interior and flipped the compass open. They faced north.

She mounted up with the compass in her hand, the pain between her shoulder blades rising to a fever pitch and then dulling down as she pulled Inga a few degrees to the left—they would go northwest, where the old ways were still strong and the people few and far between. Inga broke into a fast walk and then a trot before she had gotten her feet placed properly in the stirrups, but Aravis knew she was right: time was of the essence.

_I killed a man._

_If they capture me, they will not let me die. I will live the rest of my life in a tiny cell, begging for scraps from passing strangers. They will call me whore, murderer. _

_I cannot let them take me alive._

The awful blackness that drifted from that dark room in the east wing of Castle Zohra followed her as Inga shuffled through the moist undergrowth. It clung to her shoulders like a black wraith, seeming to trail behind them, whispering in the damp, dead leaves. Or was it the scarlet flood that followed her? Empty, glassy eyes watched from every shadow.

_Just kill me already. You should have killed me when you had the chance. But I almost beat you to it, didn't I? Oh, you loathed the beast that stayed my hand…_

Inga had long since begun to ignore Aravis's commands; it was a good thing, though, Aravis's distant rational self mused, otherwise she would have stopped and surrendered herself to the murmuring ghosts that drifted along just out of the corners of her eyes. They kept moving, though, through the dark, still woods, never stopping. Aravis wondered if Inga could smell the blood that was on her hands, that was rolling down the hills behind them; it was the only thing that would explain why she, flecked with lather, alternated between a canter and a fast walk, never even stopping to nibble at the winter berries that popped up here and there from beneath the thick blanket of needles and leaves.

They paused at what must have been midday; breathing heavily, Inga fell to her knees and put her nose on the ground to catch her breath as Aravis staggered away to collapse between the roots of a sturdy-looking oak tree. The muddy wood supported her like arms, and she fell into a shallow sleep immediately, the soft darkness rising up to swallow her whole in an inexorable sigh.

But the warm anonymity of sleep offered her no solace. Instead, she found herself back on the bloodstained mattress in her half-lit bedchamber; only this time, instead of Khurshid, it was her father who loomed over her with a calculating blankness on his face.

She woke screaming again, her throat raw and sore and her voice echoing desperately against the treetops. Inga whinnied. Aravis gasped for breath as continued panic gripped her throat, shaking her so hard the world seemed to vibrate with her.

At last, the fear subsided a bit, and she managed to sit up. Her hands still trembled. The shadows that flitted in the corners of her vision were darker now, and louder, whispering horrid things in her ears until she wanted to clap her hands over them and scream until her voice drowned theirs out. _You killed him!_

Inga sharply nipped her elbow, and Aravis realized she was breathing heavily, as though a hot fist had her lungs in its grasp. She staggered to her feet, driven by an unknown force, and mounted up in the saddle, the pain between her shoulders so far away it seemed almost nonexistent. The dark shadows dug their claws in deeper as Inga tossed up dirt from her hooves and carried them further northwest.

It was growing dark before Inga allowed Aravis to rein her in; they stopped by the bank of a still, dark pond, its surface almost black in the fading light of day. The exhaustion in her very bones as her boots sank into the moist dirt with every step was a cleansing kind; the pain and weariness felt _right_, somehow. She gazed at the pond and felt the dried blood and dirt on her hands and arms and face.

Slowly, methodically, she dressed Inga down, removing her of all the satchels and tack she carried until she stood, silver hide dull with dirt, knee-deep in the brittle rushes. Aravis then began to peel her own clothes off layer by layer. Inga tore hungrily at a small patch of soft wintercress as Aravis tossed the stained articles into the rushes. The cloth stuck to itself and to her, glued together by rainwater and mud and blood. The last layer took a bit of her flesh with it, but the fresh pain felt good, just as the cold winter air that bit at her naked skin did.

She went down to the water.

The surface of the pond rippled as she waded into it. It was cold, but not cold enough to freeze, and her breath caught painfully in her throat as she slid her feet into the icy muck that squelched up between her toes. She went deeper, in up to her waist, driven inexorably forward by the muttering of the ghosts behind her shoulders. They pushed and shoved but the cold water, now up to her ribs, made Aravis numb to their prodding, at least a little. Her breath came quick and trembling.

Somehow, she had the presence of mind to reach forward and splash some water over her shoulders to try and rinse away the blood that was dried on her skin. The two-pronged shock of pain from the harsh temperature and the open sores made her gasp. She slipped a shaking hand over her goose-pimpled shoulder and scrubbed viciously at the dirt and slime she found there; they were resistant, and she struggled in the icy water for a long time, scraping her broken nails across her tender flesh in an effort to clean herself. The filth would not wash away.

Aravis walked deeper into the pond. The dark water came up to her shoulders now, her hair trailing along behind her, and she could scarcely breathe. It felt good. Her limbs were light and airy, and she had spent so long in the water that it was beginning to feel quite warm. Vague fears of Gyneth and riverbeds drifted through her mind, but they were short-lived, and she disregarded them as soon as they appeared. How much better it would have been if she had just taken a deep breath of the cold, rushing water with Gyneth's hand to hold her down. A moment of pain, of panic, of _peace._ No murderers could follow her there.

And then, suddenly, it all became quite clear to her. The solution was so simple, so elegant. It would be so easy to walk just a little further into the water, to dip her head under the murky surface and breathe deeply as though she was smelling a bouquet of flowers. She would slip beneath the waves and disappear forever, leaving no mark of shame. It would be so _easy_. After all, hadn't she tried something like it before? There was no Talking Horse nearby to stay her hand this time, but otherwise the circumstances were nearly identical.

_Father, you would approve._

She heard him say, _Yes, oh daughter of mine. Only deep water can hide your shame._

The ghosts in the corners of her eyes pushed her forward, and she took a deep, shivering breath of cold air and let the water lap up over her chin, her lips, her nose.

A sharp pain erupted from somewhere behind her eyes, and as Aravis gasped in shock, the only thing that came into her lungs was air. She screamed in pain and confusion—something had her firmly by the hair and was dragging her back to shore so quickly it was only a second before she was lying naked in the muck and reeds and shaking like a fresh trout.

"Hell's _bells_," came a loudly unfamiliar voice as she struggled for breath. "You _are_ a stupid one! Trying to drown yourself right in the middle of winter—could've just sat out in the snow and waited to die like everyone else. Much more pleasant. I hear you feel like you're falling asleep."

Her crusty cloak fell over her shoulders, and Aravis grabbed it despite herself with blue-tipped fingers. She started to pull herself out of the muck.

"But _really_," continued the stranger. It was a woman, a northron with the thick, drawling brogue of northern Narnia, but she spoke in the clear, clipped tones of a thorough education. "Drowning? _Drowning_? That's your chosen method of self-offing? Choosing death by drowning is a clear sign you haven't thought the decision through properly."

"E-e-excuse you," Aravis bit out through chattering teeth. "W-what g-g-gives you the ri-i-ight to t-tell me wha-a-at to do with m-m-my own lif-f-f-e?"

"I haven't got a _right_," said the woman huffily, "and I don't need one, either. Clearly you haven't got a clue what to do with your own life and you need someone to tell you."

Somehow, Aravis felt beneath the numbness that had followed her from Zohra a stirring of indignation. She wrapped the cloak more tightly about herself and struggled to sit up, looking around with blurry vision. "Wh-who are you? Show yours-s-self!"

"Wring out your hair or you'll freeze to death," said the stranger darkly.

Aravis found herself obeying with shaking hands. "Damn you," she answered.

"Strong words from someone who was just about to off herself. I had hoped for a thank you."

"Piss off."

"Then again, you've always been an ungrateful one."

"A-always?" Aravis spluttered. "Who the _h-h-hell_ do you think you are—"

"Who am I?" the woman repeated angrily? "_Who am I_? Open your damn eyes, woman, and _see me_—"

Suddenly, Aravis had a face full of horse. Inga had shoved her long, dirty nose against Aravis's cheek and mouth, and Aravis tasted dirt and sweat. She shoved the animal away, but it came back biting. "_Owwww_!" she shrieked, the sharp pain searing down through the layers of dull numbness. Her vision cleared.

"Do you see me now?" Inga bellowed, nostrils flaring.

Aravis stared, her unsteady world warping as she struggled to find reality. "You—no—" _I'm drowning—they say your life flashes before your eyes—this is Hwin, and I'm back in Calavar_—

"Lion's mane," Inga said with a snort, shaking her silver head. "I save you, and how do you thank me?"

"Thank you?" Aravis laughed bitterly as her anger drove out confusion. "_Thank you_? For what? You saved me from nothing! I wanted it to end, and you are dragging it out—"

"Oh, you wanted to die?" Inga asked with big eyes.

"_Yes_—"

The animal laced her ears back. "Then take out your sword," she snapped. "Take it out! Bare the steel and that young breast of yours sink onto it. _Prove that you want to die._"

Aravis stared at the hilt of her sword. The lion's head pommel glinted dully in the last light of day, calling to her, but it was not the whispering taunts that the ghosts sent her way; it was the clear song of battle and self-preservation. She could not even reach her hand out to grasp at it.

"See?" Inga said. "You don't _really_ want to die. Not entirely. Right now you want to kill this part of you—but you know very well that there is a part of you you do not want to kill. You like that part of yourself. You want to be alive if you can be that part."

"Shut up, nag," Aravis snapped.

"No, _you_ shut up. Build yourself a fire while you work on holding your tongue."

Incredibly, Aravis found herself obeying. With trembling hands and a wobbling chin, she gathered thin rushes and damp moss and struck a weak spark into it until she had a small, smoky fire going.

"Make it bigger," Inga commanded. "Else you'll freeze to death tonight and get your wish after all."

Aravis piled the flame with twigs and branches until the fire leaped and roared; tears filled her eyes as she dressed before it, the feeling slowly returning to her fingers and toes.

"There," Inga said once she was seated by the flame with the saddle supporting her aching back. "Maybe now you will be capable of holding a rational discussion."

"With a horse."

"I'd hoped that by now you'd have realized that I am Narnian."

Aravis eyed her darkly and nibbled on the crackers she had found in the bag packed by the castle guard. As annoyed as Inga's disrespect made her, the reassurance that she was not entirely insane made her feel a bit better. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just did."

"_Earlier_."

"What, and give up my last shred of privacy?" Inga brayed with laughter, swishing her tail and reaching down to take a mouthful of wintercress. "I think not. Employing Talking Horses as hack ponies is unlawful here, you know. 'D attract a wee bit of attention."

"And yet here you are."

"I'm a special case."

"Why?"

"That's for me to know and for foolish young girls to find out when I am dead."

"Don't tempt me."

Inga pawed the ground with her left front hoof, and Aravis eyed her. "You're not lame."

"Never have been," the mare said with a bit of pride. "I'm as sound as they come."

"The stable boy told me you were lame."

"A bit of deception," Inga answered airily. "Turned out nicely, didn't it? They thought me lame so they never tied me up properly. Heard quite a few interesting things, I did."

Aravis set aside the crackers, her appetite gone at the mention of Zohra. "Then you know."

For once, Inga was quiet. When she did speak, her voice was a bit softer. "Aye. I heard."

Aravis found her arms crossing over her chest. "Is it so surprising, then, why I tried to do what I did?"

"Yes," Inga answered. "Yes, it is. I did not expect you to pick the coward's way out."

"The _coward's way—_" Aravis exclaimed, tears filling her eyes again. "I am no coward—"

"Yes, you are," Inga said firmly. "Death is the easiest thing to do in this situation. Choosing it is _cowardly_. I had thought you would be stronger."

"I can't do it—"

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm not strong enough—"

Inga snorted loudly. "Lion help us all!" she exclaimed, rolling her big brown eyes to the black sky. "Poor little girl, quite alone in the world with no friends and certainly no other woman in the kingdom who suffered _worse_ horrors than she did—_bollocks_. How many others have endured just as much as you—and really, girl, you escaped in good health—and still found it within themselves to pick up the pieces and move on? What makes them stronger than you?"

Tears poured down Aravis's face, but she didn't feel strong enough to sob. "I am _ruined,_" she spat. "An outlaw—_murderer—"_

"You think you're the only woman who's ever killed a man like Khurshid?" Inga's voice rang through the clearing, and she broke off with a snort. "All that is to say that you need to take this one day at a time," she went on after a pause. "Worry about reaching safety first. Then worry about healing. _Then_—and only then—can you worry about anything else."

"I can't," she stammered out.

Inga rolled her eyes. "Yes, you _can_! Why did you give yourself up in the first place?"

"F-for the good of the kingdom and Cor's safety," she said between breaths.

"And now why must you pick up and carry on?"

She hid her face. "For the good of the kingdom and C—"

"_No_!" Inga brayed so abruptly Aravis was momentarily startled out of her tears. "_No._ You are wrong. You have to be strong for _yourself_ this time. Cor can't help you. The kingdom can't help you. _You_ have to help you. Just for once, really, _genuinely_ care for yourself, Aravis."

Aravis, her vision blinded by tears, turned her back; the skin of her shoulders was raw and bloody from her attempts to scrub herself clean. "Every time I close my eyes, I see it—again and again and again—him looming over me—those great _empty eyes_—"

"That happens when one's seen battle," Inga said with a touch less vitriol. "Old soldiers have it, too."

"I haven't seen battle," Aravis whispered. "I'm not a soldier. It was just…an almost-rape."

Inga huffed a sigh. "First you try to murder yourself because you simply couldn't bear the memory of it, and now you're saying it was 'only almost'! Which is it, girl?"

Aravis hid her face in her hands as the tears came pouring down her cheeks; the old fear rushed back to the forefront of her mind, but now it was encased in a boiling layer of shame. "I don't know," she gasped out, feeling sick. "I didn't fight him hard enough—I could have made him stop without—without _killing him_—"

Inga pawed the ground, scattering clods of dirt over Aravis's legs. "Don't be a fool, girl," she snorted. "You know as well as anyone that he wasn't going to stop until he got what he wanted. He wanted to make an example of you."

"I shouldn't have killed him."

"It was self-defense."

"He hadn't taken me yet."

Inga sighed. "You've never killed a man, have you?"

Aravis shook her head. "Have you?"

Inga nodded her big grey head. "I'm not a filly anymore, girl."

"Was it terrible?" she whispered.

"Nothing I wished to repeat," Inga answered. "But it had to be done. Just like you. You'll realize that, in time."

Aravis dragged her cloak across her face and it came away damp. "I'm in trouble now, though, no matter which way you flip the coin. Even if you say it was self-defense, the fact remains that I killed a lord. I have no proof he—was going to violate me. Even if I did, I am just a woman."

"Sure you're in trouble," Inga said sagely. "Doesn't take a Talking Horse to tell you that. But as my dam always said, once the milk is out of the udder, there's no squeezing it back in. No use wishing you weren't in trouble. The only thing to do is to grit your teeth and hope for the best. Anyway, you can worry about the legal issues once you're out of immediate danger."

"How do I do that?" Aravis asked desperately.

"We'll keep heading north. News will spread slowly there, where the snows still have hold. By the Lion's will, we can make it into Narnia."

"What then?"

"We'll worry about that question when we get there. For now, we need to focus on getting out of this forest—it's too quiet."

"It means no one's found me yet," Aravis said dully.

Inga flicked her tail. "No," she answered, "it means that there's no wildlife. Strange, isn't it, for the first of the spring thaws?"

It really didn't matter to Aravis whether or not there were deer or squirrels nearby. She felt mangled like a dirty rag, stained and frayed from misuse. Every time she wrung a bit of emotion out, the effort pained her and then only made room for more sentiment that pressed achingly against her ribs. "It was _wrong_," she burst out at last. Inga laid her ears back. "_Wrong—wrong, wrong, wrong_—"

"What now?" Inga said.

"I broke the king's law. I broke the _highest _laws—the old laws _and_ the new. I killed a man under his own roof—"

"You had to do it," Inga said somewhat patiently.

"I didn't!" Aravis cried. "He warned me it would happen—I chose to stay with him. I _chose_ my fate. I didn't struggle, I hardly cried out—I could have escaped without killing him, Inga! But I did it anyway—I took my sword and I stabbed him. I wanted to see him die. For what he'd done to me—to Elnaz and to Lorin."

"Did it feel good?" Inga asked quietly. "When you saw him in as much pain as he'd put you in."

Aravis sat on the cold ground and stared at the horse for a long time. "No," she said at last.

She began to sob.

They were real, anguished tears this time; they wrenched out of her with great gasping breaths from somewhere deep inside. She shivered and clutched at her skirts for something to hold on to as the sobs wracked her exhausted body, but it felt purifying, and each sobbing sigh was a release of her rage and shame and each intake of breath brought a flood of faint relief.

At last, the worst of the crying jag was over, and she put her forehead on her knees and gave herself up to gentle weeping as her anger and pain was slowly swallowed up by a profound sense of loss. _A mourner's grief_. So much had slipped through her fingers that night and she now longed for it back. She grieved for her health, her peace of mind, her safety, and her future—but what ached the most was how much she missed stupid Cor. It was like an open wound on her already damaged heart.

Inga let her cry for what seemed like hours. Eventually, though, a damp, grass-covered nose nudged her elbow. "Come on, girl," the horse said gently, her thick accent absurdly soothing. "Dry your tears, else you make yourself sick. There's nothing to be done about any of it now."

Aravis gasped for breath and shakily drew her sleeve across her face. The pain beneath her breastbone throbbed on, but she clamped down hard on it until she could draw a level breath and stiffen her upper lip.

"That's the ticket," Inga said. "Now eat some more. Crying saps the strength."

At least she wasn't expected to talk. Aravis obeyed and ate more of the thick crackers slathered with cheese while Inga drank noisily from the pond she had tried to drown herself in just an hour ago.

"What's to be done?" Aravis asked, watching her ears flicking busily.

"In the morning, we'll head north," Inga sighed. "Narnia is in enough chaos these days that a young fugitive won't be noticed. Until then, best to keep my talkativeness between the two of us, eh?"

"But before then?"

"Now? Nothing," Inga said. "It's too dark to travel on. Are you sufficiently warm?"

Aravis nodded.

"Then get your bedroll ready and douse the fire. No need to draw attention to ourselves tonight. Put my bridle back on first, though."

"Yes, your ladyship," Aravis answered with a sniffle, and Inga nipped her gently.

The night was long. Exhaustion overtook her quickly, and she slept deeply, but every hour she woke with panic gripping her throat until she gasped for breath. Khurshid lurked in every shadow. Even with the pond on her left and Inga curled up watchfully on her right, Aravis felt overexposed: the stars were hidden behind thick, low clouds, and the weight of the inky blackness overhead threatened to smother her screams as any number of evildoers attacked her from the forest around them. As soon as morning came, she staggered to her feet and held the bronze compass in trembling hands. North was to their right, deeper into the silent darkness of the wood.

Aravis kept her sword loose in its sheath as they traveled on. Her head was liable to split with the pain of fatigue and emotional distress, but at least her thoughts were coming a bit more rationally now. She concentrated all her mental efforts on recalling that sweltering day nearly a decade ago when, feeling much as she did now, she had methodically planned her own ritual self-destruction. The raw ache in her belly was identical. The solution had seemed just as reasonable: death was preferable to a future of being chained to a man (or the memory of one) who was so bent on fulfilling his own lusts for flesh and power that he would not hesitate to rip her from herself. But the Great Lion had intervened then, stayed her hand at the altar of the bird-god and spoken to her through the mouth of a horse. Of course, she had not known it then. She was so busy marveling at the wonder of hearing a voice—a real voice!—coming from a trusted old mare and reeling from the sudden decision to strike out on her own that she had no time to think about powerful golden lions from the north or attempting to take her own life again.

And therein lay the key.

She scrubbed the weariness from her eyes and sat up straight in the saddle, ignoring the pain that spread throughout her body at the movement. The whispering ghosts were quieter today, but they still hovered just out of reach in her mind, and so Aravis focused her spiraling thoughts on a tangible, immediate problem.

Why, indeed, wasn't there any wildlife?

She and Inga seemed to be the only living creatures anywhere nearby. It was silent in the wood, the sunlight filtering weakly through the bare branches above their heads upon which no winter birds perched. It was unseasonably warm here in the south for the beginning of February; by all logic, the forest should be full of small animals stirring from their dens and migratory birds returning from their winter homes in Calormen. But they were alone.

It felt good to worry about something outside herself for a while, Aravis reflected, shifting in the saddle as Inga stopped to nibble on some tender weeds sprouting at the base of a dead oak tree. "When's the last time you ate?" she asked the horse.

"Right now," Inga responded through a mouthful of grass and bit.

"Before that, stupid nag."

"Las' nigh'."

Aravis slid down from the saddle and rummaged around in the saddlebag that the guard had given her. It was bulging with crackers and smoked sausages and cheese and a few withered apples, and at the very bottom was a damp bag of cracked oats. Aravis poured out a small pile of oats for Inga, then slipped the bridle over her ears and took the slimy, grass-covered bit out of her mouth so she could eat comfortably.

"Ah, fanks," Inga said, nose-deep in the oats already.

Aravis used her farrier's knife to cut one of the wrinkled apples in half and tossed it down to her. "Shut up and eat."

While Inga obeyed with grunts of horsey pleasure, Aravis settled down with her back against the tree and bit into one of the juicy smoked sausages. It had occurred to her suddenly that she was really very hungry, and she could not swallow quickly enough to satisfy her roaring belly. Each bite made her feel a little stronger.

"Stay very still, li'l love."

The hissed words were accompanied by the cold pressure of steel against her throat. Aravis dropped the crackers she had in one hand and froze, swallowing convulsively; her mouthful of cheese and sausage slid past a sharp blade. "Hush, Inga," she forced out as Inga reared back and whinnied in alarm.

"Quiet the horse," said the man whose sword was pressing uncomfortably into the hollow between her jaw and her neck.

A few dark-hooded figures came out of the shadows and seized hold of Inga's mane, holding on until she stopped bucking just long enough for them to hobble her tightly. She screamed, her dark eyes rolling hysterically back in her silver skull.

"_Sssh_," Aravis said in desperation, watching miserably as her knife was lost amidst the mud and leaves churned up by Inga's hooves.

The blade pressed a little closer, and there came a hiss of steel as the man pulled her sword from its sheath. "Y'only speak when I tell yer to," the man hissed. "I've a few questions, now 'at yer properly disarmed."

Aravis closed her eyes and prayed for it to be over quickly.

"Wha's yer name, li'l love?"

"I am Aravis," Aravis said in a voice that somehow was calmer than she felt. "Aravis Tarkheena, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar, and Lady of Anvard."

"Righ'," said the man with a hint of amusement. "Nice ter meet yer, _milady_, and I'm the king o' Galma. Wha's yer _real _name?"

"Aravis," she insisted.

The man sighed. "Righ'. Well, _Ar'vis_, wha's a young fing like yerself doin' out in these parts?"

"I am headed for Narnia."

"Narnia! From t' fryin' pan inter t'fire, don't yer fink?"

"I am fleeing the king's justice," she said, even as Inga bugled in a desperate attempt to muffle her answer.

"An outlaw! At yer age!"

"I'm just shy of twenty years," she said bitterly.

"A young, foreign outlaw," the man mused. "Now, love, what'yer do to demand t'king's justice?"

"I killed a man," she answered.

"'Sat a confession?"

"Yes."

The man was quiet for a moment, and Aravis tried desperately to see her captors' faces, but they were shrouded by their dark hoods. "Righ'," said the man at last. "Pardon me, love, but I'm 'fraid I'm 'rrestin' you on suspicion of murder in ter name of t'king."

"Which king?" she demanded in a fit of indignation.

"Lune, the one true king," said the man with a touch of pride.

"And on whose authority?"

"'Scuse me?"

"I have the right to know who my arrester is."

The man paused. Aravis held her breath, but then the pressure of the blade eased away from her throat just before a pair of hands clamped down on her shoulders. "On t'authority of the Stag's Sons."

As her captors lifted her to her feet, binding her hands behind her back with a length of rope, Aravis saw for the first time that the cloaks they wore were not just dark-colored, but dark vert. _King's men_.

_At least I'll die by loyal hands_. _Small comfort_.

"Put her on the horse," the man commanded, and they hoisted her back onto Inga's saddle.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked shakily, looking down for the first time into his face. He was her father's age, half of his face craggy with a lifetime of hard labor and the other half puckered with a series of small, red scars. "And who are you?"

"T'king o'Galma, 'member?" he replied with a small grin. "We're taking you to justice."

Justice turned out to be the name of a bustling tent encampment nestled in a grove of rowan trees several leagues away. The settlement looked semi-permanent, but as they rode through it, Aravis noticed that its inhabitants were in the process of dismantling it. Most of them were men, but there were quite a few women, too, and the scarred man shooed away a few youths who came close to gawk at Inga and the dark-skinned captive. They all wore clothes of a similar shade of green.

"Sound the bell," the scarred man told a pock-faced boy who came to meet them. "We've got 'un fer Elonn."

"_'Er_?" said the boy incredulously, pointing at Aravis. "Wha' could she have possib—"

"Get on wi' it," the scarred man growled.

The boy scowled back but went off; a few moments later, a brass bell began to ring out over the encampment. People stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.

The small procession of vert and dirty draft horses stopped near a large but low-hanging tent, its canvas stained with use. "Elonn," the scarred man called out. "Got 'un for yer."

"I 'eard t'bells, Senjen," came a rough voice from inside the tent. "Give us a mo'! 'Snot my job ter drop ever'thing t'minute you find a degen'rate."

The speaker came out of the tent then, and Aravis stared. Elonn was a woman, her sturdy frame clothed in dirty but thick furs and swathed in a dark green cloak. Her eyes were ice blue while her hair, dark as night against her pale Archen skin, was wild and caught up in ragged plaits.

"You starin'?" she asked Aravis.

"N-no," Aravis answered.

"I'll have you know that my colorin' is quite common in these parts."

Truth be told, Aravis wasn't staring at the woman's striking coloring. Rather, it was the blurred blue stains that criss-crossed her face, mouth, and hands that drew her attention. A row of stark lines split her thin lips like a grotesque mask; two more bands of ink, like gashes, streaked down each cheek.

"Tell me t'tale," the woman said to the scarred man.

"Found 'er three leagues from 'ere, Elonn," he answered. "Says she's of the name Ar'vis, a tarkaan of—"

"I'm Aravis," Aravis corrected him. "Aravis _tarkheena_, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar."

He shrugged.

"Tarkheena," the tattooed woman mused. "Far from 'ome, love?"

"I'm a ward of His Majesty the King," she answered. "The Lady of Anvard."

The woman seized the scarred man's collar and dragged him down, yelping, to her level. "A ward o' the king, Senjen?" she hissed. "You arrested a _ward_—o' the _king_?"

"I di'n't know!" he yelped. "She di'n't say nothing—she could be lyin', Elonn—"

Elonn released him with a dark look. "What d'you stand accused of, stranger?" she asked Aravis bluntly.

"I killed Khurshid, son of Tyrien, viscount Sidrat," Aravis answered. "It was done in self-defense, but he died at my hand." The words tasted uncomfortably sweet on her tongue.

There was silence for a moment.

"Get 'er down," Elonn said eventually. "Stranger, you'll stand before a judge ter answer ter your accusations an' face t'king's justice."

"Now?" Aravis said as Senjen and a few others got her down from Inga's back.

"Now."

"But I don't even know—"

Elonn waved her hand. "Senjen, ready the stranger for trial."

The scarred man took her shoulder rather roughly, and as he led her away from Inga, fear broke through Aravis's thin façade of calm. "Please," she gasped, "explain!"

"Peace, love," Senjen said gruffly. "'S a trial, is all."

"But who—"

"We are the Stag's Sons."

"So you said, but—"

"T'king's justice 'as been sorely neglected in these parts," he said, steering her through the maze of tents. His sword jingled in its sheath. "We execute it when t'lords don't. An' that's more 'n more often as not, these days, now that good King Lune is gettin' on in age. Can't ride out 'gainst wayward lordlings when you're fat and gouty, can yeh?"

He pushed her out into a clearing; faint sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, and she saw that it was a sort of meeting-ground for the encampment. There was a low table at the front, and people were starting to gather around. "I don't—" she said weakly.

"You confessed to murderin' a lord."

"Yes, but I don't know anything about you! Any of you."

Senjen sighed as if she was quite inconveniencing him. "The Sons of the Stag, love, is jus' a band o' people put out o' their homes an' towns by t'ose who'd do away with t'law o' our good King Lune, bless 'im. We gather 'em and care for 'em and use the ones 'oo're able to hit at t'lawless when we're able."

Aravis was quiet for a minute, letting this information sink in. Loyalists, through and through. "The Finnii," she said softly.

Senjen gave her a sharp look. "'Ow you come t'know 'bout them?"

"I traveled with His Royal Highness Prince Cor," she answered bluntly. There seemed to be no use in lying anymore, as long as she didn't tell them anything about Cor's whereabouts.

He clearly didn't believe her. "The Finnii're a plague," he said viciously, spitting on the ground. "Pox-ridden whoresons bent on destroyin' the kingdom an' burnin' us with it."

"Couldn't agree more," she answered.

"Finnii knives gave me this prize," he said, pointing at his scarred face. "Got in t'way o' a so-called 'warlord'…wouldn't let 'im steal my sheep to feed 'is traitors, so's they killed me son and dashed up m'face fer t' hell o' it."

"Who's in charge here?"

"Elonn," he said. "'Sall we know 'bout 'er name. 'Er 'usband got 'er branded a nag—t'ose lovely markings on 'er lips—so's she killed 'im and served 'er time in t'king's gaol for it, got ou', gave herself more markin's, and formed the Stag's Sons."

Heat rose in her face as Aravis realized the import of her surroundings. "You fight the Finnii?" she asked, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

"Traitors," Senjen growled. "We'll 'unt 'em down, ever' last one."

Tears flooded Aravis's gaze, but she blinked them back quickly and lifted her chin. "Who am I to stand trial to?"

"Elonn 'erself," Senjen answered. "She c'n read 'n write 'n such."

She nodded. _Out of the frying pan, indeed._

The crowd that had gathered in the clearing was growing larger, murmuring to each other and staring openly at her. _For southrons, they sure seem surprised to have a Calormene in their midst_. "What do I have at my disposal in my defense?"

"Anythin' you have," Senjen said. "Ah, 'ere she comes."

Aravis turned. The crowd started jabbering loudly and pointing elsewhere, and as they parted, Elonn strode up with a gaggle of fierce-eyed men hurrying along in her wake.

"Make way for t'judge," bellowed the pock-faced boy from before, ringing his bell. "Silence for t'trial!"

Elonn and her associates pulled up old barrels and sat on them behind the low table. Senjen pushed Aravis out to stand between the crowd and the tribunal; she didn't know which way to face, so she stood at an awkward angle with her body towards the crowd and her face towards the table.

"We're met today to determine t' guilt or innocence of t' party in question," Elonn said without preamble, addressing the crowd at large, which stood in breathless anticipation. "Stranger, you stand accused of murder. How do yer plead?"

"Guilty," Aravis said with a hitch in her throat.

Elonn nodded to one of her accomplices, who took down the answer. "Righ', then," she said over the murmuring of the crowd—apparently, most people hauled before the Stag's Sons pleaded innocent. "First we must settle the ma'er of yer identity. For t' record, what do you call yerself?"

For what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, Aravis answered, "I am Aravis Tarkheena, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar, and Lady of Anvard. I am a ward of His Majesty the King Lune the first of his name."

"Is there anyone who can confirm yer story?"

She shook her head. "No, but I beg of you to search my belongings. I'm certain there is evidence of my identity there."

Elonn nodded to the pock-faced boy, and soon the tribunal was sorting through Aravis's saddlebags, looking fine and out of place among the dirty-faced crowds of people. Aravis felt her face heating up as they laid out her undergarments for all to see.

"Wha's this?" asked one of Elonn's associates in a rough voice. He held up _In Pursuit of the Crested Cormorant_.

"Just a book," Aravis answered faintly, torn between disgust and amusement. Just looking at the volume made her stomach turn—it conjured up memories of a throbbing nose and aching heart—but it struck her as inordinately funny somehow that in the chaos of her escape, she had managed to stuff it in one of her bags.

They set it aside and sorted through the rest of her things. The grand tapestry she had been working on, the stag now finished and the sigils of the lesser houses starting to take shape, caught on one of the men's tunics as the needle she had stored in the fabric worked loose, and he swore before tugging it free and tossing it aside. Elonn reflexively reached out to catch it from falling to the dirt, and she looked at briefly, her ice-blue eyes scanning the scene with detachment.

"I see nothin' wi' 'er name, Elonn," said the tallest man dully. "Jes' some kerchiefs with 'A's on 'em."

_Hana_, Aravis thought with a pang that somehow pierced her thin veneer of indifference.

Elonn glanced at the proffered handkerchiefs disinterestedly. "Wha' 'ave you to say, miss?"

"I—I—" Aravis said, her exhausted brain grinding slowly. "Surely you can tell by the quality of my belongings that I am a woman of means."

"Per'aps you stole 'em," said a toothless man.

"I didn't," she answered. "Look at me, good people, hear my voice—I am clearly Calormene."

"Forgive us," intoned another man, "but we don't assume every dark-skinned southerner is a tark-whatsit."

"Tarkheena," Aravis said through gritted teeth as Elonn stood up.

"'Sthere anyone 'ere 'oo can vouch fer this 'ere Calormene?" Elonn said loudly, her thick southron accent carrying far over the crowd.

Aravis buried her face in her hands as sudden, unbidden fear rose up inside her and threatened to knock loose the moorings she had just recently repaired. No one knew her here. If she couldn't prove her identity, then what? Would they turn her over to the nearest lord? Would they send her back to Calormen?

"I can," came a rough voice.

Aravis choked on a breath and spun around. The crowd parted for a dark-haired man with broad shoulders and thick arms; he swung them aggressively as he walked, but his left hand and right eye were swathed in thick, stained bandages. Something about him was strikingly familiar, but the entire scene was so out of context that Aravis couldn't place him properly…

"An' 'ow do you know 'er, Lognar?" Elonn asked.

"Lognar," Aravis gasped. There it was—the same blue eyes and button nose she saw on Ragna's face every day. The last time she had seen him was months ago on his farm several days' ride outside of Kostis; she remembered vividly how Ragna hung on his shoulders and wept bitterly.

Lognar refused to meet her gaze. "She tells truth," he said bluntly. "She 'n t'crown prince hisself worked on me farm last harvestin' season."

Lognar's words were met with murmuring from the crowd. Elonn stared at him for a moment, then nodded, her tattooed lips thin. "Well then, m'lady," she said stiffly, turning back to Aravis, "yer speak truth."

"Everything I have said is truth."

"So far. Now I want ter hear t'tale of 'ow you 'lleg'dly came ter kill the lord o' this land."

Aravis's words were lost in a convulsive swallow. "It was self-defense," she said weakly.

"So yeh've said," the tall man snapped.

Elonn nodded. "T'_tale_."

Aravis found herself unable to speak. It was a queer feeling, but she stood there in silence, her tongue absolutely refusing to move. Even if it had been able to, she didn't know what she would have said. There were too many people there—_too many_—and she felt herself begin to grow nauseous. Sweat broke out on her brow.

_Spit it out, stupid —_

_You're worthless. So worthless! Murderer!_

_Too many people!_

"Speak, milady," the toothless man said sternly.

"I can't," she whispered.

"What?" said Elonn.

"She said she can't," Senjen announced, loud enough that the whole crowd could hear it.

Aravis only just caught the edge of the tribunal's table in time to keep herself from stumbling. She felt a bead of sweat roll down her neck, and it dripped into the open wounds under her dress. Her stomach clenched.

"She's liable to be sick," Senjen said with a yawn.

"The trial mus' go on," the toothless man grunted. "Speak, girl, and tell of your crime!"

_I wish to see what it is about your twat that the slave prince found so alluring._

"Speak!"

_N__o one else understands what it's like to be made unhuman, to be reduced to a mere animal, stripped of one's pride and one's dignity and one's__name__—to be__nothing._

"Yer ins'lence'll not go unnoticed, girl—"

_The king's whore._

She doubled over and vomited into the dirt. The taste was bitter—she had little in her stomach—and the bile mixed with the salt of her tears as she heard the crowd murmuring in disgusted sympathy.

"Bes' let 'er be fer now," said Senjen, and Aravis felt awash in shame. She had spoken of greater things before greater audiences and never felt a lick of apprehension, and now—she had fallen so far in just a few days that an entire crowd of strangers saw her grow tongue-tied, sweaty, and loose-stomached when asked a simple question.

"Ge' 'er up," came Elonn's voice.

Senjen slipped his hands under her elbows. Aravis recoiled instinctively, a sudden shock of fright piercing her to the bone, but Senjen held firm and gently guided her away from the tribunal table. The crowd parted for them. Aravis couldn't decide who she was more afraid of, the scarred man who had his hands tight around her arms or the press of strangers who crowded against each other to catch a glimpse of her face. Panic mixed with dread and isolation until all she could hear in her head was a dull roar of protest.

"'Ere now, love," Senjen said gruffly as she staggered, her knees trembling, "nofin' to worry 'bout. Can't do much worse 'n that, can yeh? Now where to put yer…"

He helped her into a small, dark tent. The silence inside was somehow worse than the noise of the crowd, and as he puttered around, she clung to the canvas of the door, wondering if it was possible to start running and never stop.

"Try havin' a lie-down," Senjen growled, patting a short, low cot.

Aravis's heart leapt into her throat and her right hand reached reflexively for her empty scabbard.

Senjen put his hands in the air. "High-born girls," he rumbled. "Nofin' like t'songs. 'Ave it yer way, 'en, _milady_. I'll leave yeh be. 'Ere's victuals in t'trunk if'n you find yerself peckish. Aye?"

When she did not respond, Senjen sidled past her, his hands still raised, and slipped out into the sunlight, leaving her alone in the silence. Aravis dropped the canvas behind him immediately and turned over every trunk and basket in the small tent—she knew she was a captive, but the Stag's Sons were still an enigma to her. Past experiences had, of course, taught her that even these simple commonfolk could have any number of reasons to kill her, and damn it if she was going to let them get her with a hidden swordsman.

She was alone in the tent, though, and slowly the clamor in her head began to dull. Exhaustion flooded her from head to foot. _Where is Inga_? she wondered, sinking down onto the low cot. _Where is my sword?_

_Why is Lognar here_?

If Ragna knew her brother was nearby…Aravis sighed heavily. Didn't he have a farm to tend? A wife and child? Why was he with the Stag's Sons?

_The Sons of the Stag, love, is jus' a band o' people put out o' their homes an' towns by t'ose who'd do away with t'law o' our good King Lune, bless 'im._

She lay back on the cot, resting her head on a thin cushion. _Bless him_. A dull warmth filled her chest. That wonderful, fat, orange-bearded man—she had never given him enough credit. She was exhausted beyond her abilities, dealing with the Finnii and lordlings and princes and commoners, and yet he did it all and more with a good sense of humor. Oh, how she _missed_ him.

Aravis shut her eyes and tried to put all thoughts of the Stag's Sons out of her mind and sleep. Relaxation was impossible—every raised voice or clank of steel made her start—but she forced herself into a kind of vague half-awareness wherein her mind could drift aimlessly, alighting on a memory just in time to jump to another one. She began to feel pleasantly warm.

—_Your twat that the slave prince found so alluring—_

She gasped herself into full consciousness. For a terrifying moment, she thought the canvas cloth above her head was the velvet curtains that had surrounded her bed at Zohra; Khurshid with his bloody mouth lurked just out of the corner of her eye, and she leapt from the cot onto shaking legs and tore the tent apart before she was absolutely certain that he wasn't there.

The fear that filled her like water slowly turned into humiliation. Her pulse pounding unevenly in her ears, she climbed back onto the cot and curled up with the pillow against her aching belly. "I'd rather be dead," she whispered into the silence.

"Aravis?"

The voice with its strong southron accent came from outside the tent. Aravis could not bring herself to answer.

"'Spose yer prefer _m'lady_."

Aravis closed her eyes and willed the voice, the tent, the cot, to drift away.

The canvas entrance twitched a bit. "Comin' in," came the voice, and Elonn stepped in.

Aravis turned away.

"It's jes' me," the tattooed woman said gently. "I brough' some water fer yeh."

She pressed a wineskin into Aravis's hand, and Aravis instinctively drank from it before she had time to think. The flat taste of boiled water met her tongue.

"Yer a young one," Elonn said.

"I'm nigh on twenty," Aravis said dully.

"So's you said. Doesn' mean yer old 'nough to have seen what yeh seen."

Aravis could think of nothing to say.

Elonn stood a respectful distance from her cot. "I know what yeh seen," she said quietly. "I can see it in yer eyes."

Aravis had no patience for being pandered to. "You know nothing," she answered.

"May be so. But I know more'n you. Did 'e get a chil' in you?"

Elonn asked the question so innocently that Aravis did not fully register it immediately. When she did, she raised her head to look into the woman's tattooed face. A placid expression met her gaze. "Don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

"Aye, yeh do. A's why yeh killed him, innit? 'E raped yeh. Or nearly did."

Aravis flinched involuntarily at the word.

"Ah," Elonn said wisely. "I coul' tell. 'Oo was 'e?"

The surface of the wineskin was damp under her fingers. "Khurshid, son of Tyrien, viscount Sidrat," she said with a dry mouth. "He _almost_ did."

"Lordling," Elonn said, and spat on the ground. "Yeh stopped 'im?"

Aravis shrugged.

"When?"

"Two—three days ago," Aravis murmured. _Feels like yesterday_.

It was Elonn's turn to be quiet. "Not long," she said at last. "Yeh might still 'ave gifts from 'im."

Aravis felt the ache across her shoulders. She shrugged again.

"Aye? Or nay?"

She nodded.

Elonn sighed. "Yeh got treatment for 'em?"

She shook her head.

"Let me see," Elonn said.

Aravis felt herself starting to detach from her body again. It was a welcome feeling, to be so divorced from emotion. She gave over to Elonn's demands.

Elonn came close to the cot. "I'm goin' ter unlace yer frock," she said bluntly, circling around back. "Gently, now."

She began to loosen Aravis's gown, keeping up a steady stream of commentary as she went. Aravis listened silently.

"I'm goin' ter touch yer shoulder," Elonn said after a pause. "'S'all right?"

Aravis nodded.

Elonn's cool fingers prodded the tender flesh that had been ravaged by the whip just days before. "Aye," she murmured. "I un'erstand. Mabe! Gendrie!"

Two more women, both brown-haired, came quietly into the tent. Elonn must have felt Aravis tense up, for she said quickly, "Ar'vis, this 'ere's my friends. They's going to help yeh get cleaned up."

"I can't explain any of this in front of that crowd," Aravis said all at once. Her own voice surprised her.

"O' course not," Elonn said smoothly. "Mabe 'n Gendrie 're judges, too. 'Slong as yeh tell us t'whole truth, we'll count it as tes'imony."

Aravis looked sharply at her.

"Only if yeh're comf'table," Elonn answered.

It took everything she had, but Aravis nodded.

"You're going to heal well," Gendrie said kindly as she smeared her hot shoulders with a cool cream that tingled on her skin. Aravis breathed deeply and caught the scent of peppermint; it soothed her a little and reminded her of horses and stableboys and happier times.

"Do you have a clean dress to change into?" Gendrie asked her. "The one you are wearing is dirty, and I loathe to put it on over your creams."

"In my bags," Aravis answered, "but Senjen took them when he arrested me."

Elonn nodded to Mabe, who immediately scurried off. Gendrie began to rinse her hands. "'ow do yeh feel?" Elonn asked.

Aravis shrugged, and Elonn gave a wry half-smile. "How did you know?" she asked quietly. In earlier days, she might have reached for the woman's hand.

"Senjen told yeh t'story o' my markin's, surely," Elonn answered. Aravis nodded. "Ah, yes. 'E didn' tell yeh why I killed my 'usband?"

"He made you get the inking."

"Ah, no, girl. 'E made me get t'inking—I was a _nag_, y'know—an' then 'e brung me 'ome an' raped me. Righ' there in the dirt like I was a piece o' horse shit." A shadow crossed her tattooed face, then lightened. "So I killed 'im. And did t'kingdom a damn favor innit."

Aravis looked at her hands. Despite all her scrubbing, there was still a bit of blood in the edges of her fingernails, though whose it was she was no longer sure. "Yes," she said softly.

"'Sat wha' 'appened to yeh?" Elonn asked.

"Yes."

The whole story spilled out of her then; she sat there and told the whole tale of how they had come to stay at Zohra and the fear of the Finnii that had been plaguing them all year. She told them about Cor's nightmares and Corin's drunkenness and the way Hana would come and sing songs for them after dinner while Janey taught Ragna the game of chess. She told them how she had taken her place as lady of Zohra and done right by the people after Cor left her there, and how Lorin had screamed as the blood dripped into his beard. She told them how Khurshid's breath had smelled of onions and wine as he climbed up behind her, and how his last breath had been blood.

"So it's true," Gendrie said. "You _do_ know Their Highnesses the princes."

Elonn shot her an admonishing look, but Aravis had to smile a bit. She liked the tactless change of subject. "Yes," she answered.

"I heard whispers that a great lady of court was among us."

"I don't know about 'great,' but I am a ward of His Majesty the king."

"What is he like?" Gendrie asked.

"King Lune?"

"Yes. We have heard so much about him, you know, but I've never seen him."

"He's fat," Aravis answered honestly.

Elonn snorted with laughter.

"Really," Aravis protested. "He's round as a ball and so portly he can hardly ride a horse anymore."

"The bards say he has hair like flame," Gendrie pressed.

"Once, perhaps," Aravis answered, "but now it's faded and streaked with grey."

"Is 'e as good as 'ey say?" Elonn asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap.

Aravis looked at the woman, with her ice-chip eyes and blurred markings that hid faint wrinkles, and saw reflected in her expression a desperate need for reassurance. It must be exhausting, leading and caring for so many who had been hurt and deceived by men in charge of their welfare while the ears of the palace at Anvard seemed deaf. "Yes," she said gently, just as much for her own benefit as for Elonn's.

"An' 'is sons? Corin the soldier an' Cor t'found prince?"

"Even better," she whispered.

Elonn sat back, face soft.

Aravis breathed deep of the warm air of the tent, scented subtly with wafts of mint and horse. She had not even dared to wish to find herself in such safe, simple surroundings again, even for such short a time as she was destined to stay there.

"What is going to happen to me after this?" she said. She could not keep the fear out of her voice.

Elonn sighed. "Gendrie 'n I'll take yer story to t'other judges and hear yer case. If'n yer found innocent, yeh'll be set free."

"But I'm not."

"No."

"What is the penalty for guilt?"

"By t'king's law," Elonn said, "death."

The word was a slap in the face. "As long as it is quick," she said tremulously.

"But t'king is merciful," the woman went on. "Not all guilt is equally guilty."

Mabe came bursting back into the tent. "Sorry," she said breathlessly when she noticed Aravis's frightened expression and the irritated stirring of the other two women. "I jes'—you had so many fine things, your graceful ladyship, that I couldn't decide—"

"Slavers take yeh, girl," Elonn growled impatiently. "Get 'er dressed."

Aravis stood up and let Mabe and Gendrie help her out of her stained, muddy dress and into the gown Mabe had chosen, the deep blue one with soft wolf's fur to line the sleeves and neck. She felt quite out of place among the plain green tunics the other three women wore, but then Mabe ran her fingers over the fabric and said marvelingly, "By the First Men, you look like a queen, m'lady."

"You've never seen a queen," Gendrie said accusingly, but Aravis felt the words take root and grow warm deep in the painful pit of her stomach. Khurshid had tried to do his worst to her, hadn't he? She couldn't imagine a worse fate than the one she had nearly suffered at his hand. But now, she stood in the low tent on her own two feet, with women's voices and the soft odors of mint and fur and wine encircling her like a pair of arms. Nothing was truly different—at least nothing that really mattered. He hadn't taken away her head or her arms, had he? No, Khurshid taken nothing from her that she had not let him take; he had gained no ground in her head that she had not surrendered to him.

_And if I have given it to him, I can take it back_.

"I am not a queen," she said. Elonn, Gendrie, and Mabe fell silent. "I am not a lady. What I am is young, strong, and clever. Elonn, make your ruling as you will. But if you find me innocent, I ask that you let me join the Stag's Sons."

"Yeh understand t'import? Yeh swear yer life t'the king's service, t' give it up fer 'is justice 'n safety if need be."

Aravis smiled a little. "I already have."


	68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

_A/N: __After much soul-searching and discussions with readers and personal friends, I have decided to slightly re-write the last two chapters of _The Fledgling Year_. Those of you who are fans of us on Facebook are aware of these changes, but if you are not, I strongly recommend going back and skimming chapters 66 and 67._

_I made this decision after a long period of painful thought. In the USA alone, more than 200,000 women and girls are sexually assaulted each year. I wanted to stand by what I wrote an__d use Aravis as an example of the hope and healing that is possible after rape. On the other hand, gentle counsel from trusted readers (some of whom thanked me for writing what I did and some of whom questioned it) made me realize that perhaps I have gotten in over my head. _

_In the end, I decided that "The Fledgling Year" is not the right vehicle for a discussion about rape survival. Neither I nor my readers, I think, have enough stamina for that kind of extended pain so late in the fic. It is a topic I would like to address in the future, perhaps in another fic someday, but not now._

_That all being said, I appreciate all the encouragement and advice I receive from readers (you know who you are). As always, I welcome everyone's feedback as to this decision generally, the newly edited chapters, and previous and upcoming chapters. If you want to discuss anything privately, my PM inbox is always open.__ ~SH_

_Chapter Sixty-Eight_

It was late evening when Elonn returned to fetch Aravis from Senjen's tent. They emerged into the dusk and Aravis blinked to adjust her eyes to the dim light; the moon overhead was still as bright as it had been when she fled from Zohra, but it seemed closer tonight, her view of it unobstructed by castle towers.

The judges had elected not to continue her trial that night, as apparently there had been a rather unpleasant quarrel in the east end of camp, and a few Stag's Sons had come to blows over it. The resulting ordeal of restoring order had taken the rest of the day. As a sign of goodwill, though, Elonn gave back enough of her things that she could pitch her own tent for the night; despite that, she was not any less a captive, and she was not given her sword or allowed to see Inga. "Where would I escape to?" Aravis had said wryly. Elonn only smiled.

Her old tent was not as comfortable as Senjen's had been, Aravis reflected ironically, but at least it was familiar, and she wrapped herself up in her old stained bearskin that still smelled of smoke and horse. She slept uneasily. The sounds of the encampment kept her awake most of the night; it had been years since she had traveled with a large host, and she had forgotten how noisy it was, even at night. Every so often, the quiet was shattered by a shriek of laughter, a loud oath, or the crack of a log breaking and falling into a campfire; she slept lightly, and each sound jerked her awake. When she did sleep, it was punctuated by upsetting dreams. While none were as nightmarish as the ones she'd had in the wood, the dreams she did have were all saturated with anxiety and a sick feeling of dread that lingered even after waking. Towards dawn, she dreamed of Cor, and she woke with tears on her cheeks.

Gendrie and Mabe made no comment on her haggard look when they came into her tent with a meager breakfast of hard bread and cheese. "It's all that was in your satchels," Gendrie said when she caught Aravis's listless glance.

Aravis nibbled at the cheese as Gendrie smoothed more cream over her raw shoulders. "Has my horse been fed?" she asked.

"Saw to it m'self," Mabe answered gently. "It bit at all t'men who came near."

"And she hasn't—" Aravis had to stop herself from saying 'said anything.' Mabe waited for her to finish. "She didn't draw blood, did she?"

"Only twice," Mabe said.

Gendrie laced her dress back up and wiped her hands off on a rough bit of cloth. "If you've eaten your fill, the judges have reached a verdict."

At the word 'verdict,' Aravis lost what little appetite she had, and she pushed the trencher away with the back of her hand. "Take me to them."

Gendrie nodded and ducked out of the tent. Aravis followed, tripping over the hem of her fur-lined gown. The camp was bustling as it had been the day before, but this time no one took any notice of her. She was just as anonymous as anyone.

Though the clearing she had been brought to earlier was empty, the people busy with their own tents, still the judges sat at their low table, whispering to each other. Someone had cleaned up her vomit, Aravis noticed, and she wondered with a sick lurch of her stomach if that someone had been one of the several panting dogs she had seen roaming about. _No time for that now_. She steeled her jaw and stepped up to the table.

Elonn motioned for silence. The palm of her hand was tattooed, too, Aravis noted peripherally. "Let us make our rulin'," she said evenly. "There's much work t'be done."

One of the judges, a small, toothless old woman, eyed Aravis with a frown. "Are you the accused, girl?"

"I am," Aravis said, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. If she had just had an uninterrupted night's sleep, then maybe—_maybe_—she could have faced the tribunal with iron nerves… "I am Aravis, only daughter of Kidrash tarkaan."

"And what do you stand accused of?"

"The murder of Khurshid, son of Tyrien, lord viscount Sidrat."

"How do you plead?"

_How else_? she thought miserably. _His blood is still under my nails._ Elonn watched her silently, her pale eyes unblinking. "Guilty, if you please."

One of the men cleared his throat with a rattle. "Then we, the high council of the Stag's Sons, by the authority of His Majesty the King Lune, the first of his name, do find you so."

His pronouncement was met with bird-like nods. Aravis listened to the group of strangers agreeing that she was guilty with a deadweight in her belly; she began to wish Inga had not dragged her from the water when she did.

Elonn waited for the murmurs of agreement to fade out. "As high judge," she said once her associates had gone silent, "i' falls t'me t'dispense sentencin'. Aravis, yeh gave yer' testimony before three sworn judges o' t'peace, did yeh not?"

"I did," Aravis whispered.

"And can yeh swear that t'tale was t'truth?"

"On the grace of the Lion," Aravis said, feeling a twinge across her back.

"T'en, in light o' t'mitigatin' circumstances, I do _not_ pass on t'sentence of death. I rec'gnize tha' yeh acted in self-defense an' so declare yeh blameless before t'law."

The judges gazed balefully at Aravis for a few moments before she could gather her wits. "I'm—just like that?" she stuttered.

Elonn nodded. "Not all guilt's equally guilty."

Aravis didn't _feel_ blameless. "What happens now?" she whispered, misery unfolding in her belly like a rotten fist.

"The way I see it," said Senjen, who leaned against a nearby tent pole with his fingers tucked under his arms, "yer free t'go, love."

_Free_. How sweet the word sounded. For a brief, breathless moment, Aravis thought about riding southwest to catch Cor up—she would seize him by the collar and force him to look her in the eye—but then, just as suddenly as her heart had soared, it plummeted again. What had seemed like freedom just a moment ago was now merely another form of slavery. _I know what waits for me there_, Aravis thought, raising her eyes to the craggy tips of the trees that surrounded them and then to the grey, foggy hills that rose up behind them. Who were the Stag's Sons to pronounce her innocent? Rumor would spread faster than verdict. She would spend her days running ahead of those who would have her head on a spike; for the Lion's sake, she was still in Sidrat land! First the commonfolk would turn against her, and then the lordlings under the viscount, and then other viscounts, and before long, word would come to Anvard that Aravis Throatpiercer was roaming free.

"What if I don't want to go?" she burst out.

"T'girl's grown fond of Justice," Senjen said to the tribunal, grinning.

"To join the Stag's Sons," said the old man dutifully, "you must first prove your worth if you are not otherwise linked to a member."

"Lognar," she said reflexively. "I'm linked to him. I ate his bread and slept under his roof."

"Yer not 'is kin," said the youngest man on the tribunal, speaking for the first time. "Only chil'ren an' elders may join t'Sons wi'out demonstratin' some sort o' skill."

"We're not a travelin' poorhouse, Ar'vis," Elonn said with a touch of remorse in her voice. "Ev'ry person yeh see 'ere plays a role. Some're cooks, some're scholars, some're swords."

"I know my letters," she answered. "I read four languages and speak three."

"Can yeh do up maps?"

"I can read them."

"Can yeh range an' draw 'em from mem'ry?"

Cartography had not been included in the long list of subjects Scholar Reave had drilled into her head; indeed, why should it have been? The libraries of Anvard overflowed with maps of all sizes and shapes, old and new, topographical and nautical and agricultural. She shook her head mutely.

"We can't afford to clothe 'er and feed 'er two 'ot meals a day fer a bit o' translatin'," said the young man to his peers, loudly enough that Aravis could hear.

"What languages do yeh know?" Elonn asked her.

"I speak and read the New Tongue, Old Archenlandian, Old Calormene, and I read the island dialects, too," she answered, stumbling over the words even as she was so earnestly trying to prove herself fluent.

"We all speak the New Tongue," said the young man derisively. "An' who're we going ter come 'cross who speaks _Ol' Calormene_?"

Rage welled up inside her for a moment, but Aravis knew he was right. The commonfolk of all the northern kingdoms spoke the New Tongue (an odd name for a language that had taken hold a thousand years ago), and even poor farmers as far south as north central Calormene knew a few words. She was a highborn lady, and had been educated as such. All her fluency and sums and fancy needlework meant nothing when faced with a hundred mouths to feed and a thousand unfriendly swords on every side.

"You have a blade," the old man said, not unkindly. "'Twill serve you well in the wood. We wish you the best."

_I have a blade_. "I do have a blade," she said aloud. The words sounded foolish even to her ears, but they spilled out nonetheless, driven by a desperation that took her by surprise. "I have a blade, forged by His Majesty's own armorer. It was balanced for my own arm and none other's. I was trained alongside His Royal Highness Prince Cor by Lord Darrin Strongarm himself when he was captain of the royal guard. Let me stay. I can write and read _and_ wield a sword and fire an arrow with some accuracy. And I can hunt—"

"Reg'lar lady knight," Senjen murmured amusedly.

"Do you speak truth?" the crone asked, her words dripping with suspicion.

Aravis flushed. "I do. My training was not as extensive as His Royal Highness's, to be sure, and I might miss at small targets, but—"

Elonn held up her hand for silence and Aravis closed her mouth. "We al'ays 'ave need o' sharp swords," she said. "Senjen, fetch the girl's blade from t'smithy an' get 'er a decent set o' clothes. If'n she passes yer drills, she c'n stay."

_Drills_. Aravis had to resist a hysterical urge to laugh. Wouldn't Lune be proud? Oh, how he had shaken his head when she begged to be part of Cor's lessons.

"_You said I was to learn _everything_ he did, sire!_"

"_My dear, you are a lady. Ladies have needles, not swords."_

_"But you promised. A king always keeps his promises. You said so yourself, just last night."_

He had laughed at that, rubbing his big belly and turning pink with mirth. "_So I did. But what if I was concerned about you getting hurt?"_

_"That would be silly. Sha—Cor's never even held a sword before, you know, and I brought my own from Calormen!"_

_"So you might hurt Cor instead."_

_"I won't do it on purpose."_

He had given in, of course, feigning great consternation and reserve, but a few days later Darrin had come to fetch her to the armory yard with a long, thin bundle under his arm. Her own smallsword, made just for her with a stag's head pommel made of bone. She was twelve, then. Her real sword, the one Senjen was getting for her now, was her seventeenth birthday gift from Lune; it was a strong, solid longsword sized just a bit smaller than usual so it wouldn't drag in the dirt when she wore it at her hip. It sported a bronze lion's head now, and the leather grip was growing rough with use. She had been embarrassed of it then, though, wishing she had gotten a new gown and a necklace to wear with it so her ladies-in-waiting would stop whispering disapprovingly behind her back.

When Senjen returned, Aravis retreated to her tent to clamber clumsily out of her wolf-fur gown and into a set of the utilitarian green tunic and trousers that all the other Sons wore, the sleeves cut close and short so they would not get in the way of work. The cold air bit at her aching shoulders, and her fingers trembled as she laced up the tunic by herself, but whether it was from hunger, fear, or grief, she couldn't tell. Her belly ached, a deep clenching sick feeling, as she buckled her sword at her waist.

Senjen was waiting in the clearing when she emerged. His sword was out, and he spun it casually in one gloved hand while he chatted with the wrinkled old woman. "Ah," he said when he spotted Aravis, "t' palace kitten unsheathes her claw."

Aravis took hold of the pommel of her sword and drew it from its scabbard. _Sharp and quick_, Cor had called it. _Just like you_.

_As Khurshid found_, she thought grimly, looking along the line of the blade as it glinted in the dull winter sun. It felt queer, holding the naked steel again. Fear gripped her throat.

Senjen took his broadsword in both hands and approached her. "The test's easy 'nough," he said. "Don't let me kill yeh."

The force of his steel landing on hers took her by surprise. She staggered back as the shock made her loosen her grip on the pommel, but instinct forced her back a few steps as she turned to make herself a smaller target. Senjen wielded his sword with little grace, but his hits were hard and well-placed. Aravis danced back around and around, blocking most of his blows and staying just far enough away that he had to stretch to try and reach her. She could do only that. It was too soon—too early to try to hurt an innocent man again.

_I used to do this with Cor_, she thought absurdly. For a moment, she was back in the armory yard at Anvard, and Senjen was Cor, three years younger. _I can't hurt him. Won't_.

"Stop, stop," came Elonn's voice from what seemed like a great distance.

Senjen stepped away and lowered his sword. Aravis could not; her grip had hardened around the pommel like stone. A pair of thin, wiry arms went around her aching shoulders. "There now, girl," said Elonn gently, "it's quite a'right. You're safe 'ere."

Only then did Aravis realize that she was crying. _How did I not notice_? she thought stupidly, standing with her arms at her sides as Elonn patted her back. "Did I pass the test?" she asked.

"No," Senjen answered matter-of-factly. "Yeh parry well, love, an' yeh've been trained well to save yer own skin, but I need _swords_. I need swordsmen 'oo can fight _back_."

_I can do that_, Aravis wanted to scream but her voice was gone; another one was whispering, _no, I can't_. She shook her head.

"Yeh can't keep on like this, girl," Elonn whispered. "'Tisn't the way ter live, sad an' lost in t'ghosts of what happened afore."

_No reason the whole castle has to hear_. "No," she said dully.

Elonn shook her suddenly, and her teeth rattled together. "Stop it," the woman snapped, the blue markings on her face making her look dark and fierce. "Yeh have'ta get _angry_, girl. _Angry_. D'you hear me?"

"Angry," Aravis repeated.

"_Angry_!" Elonn shook her once more, and Aravis felt a flash of resentment. "Yeh must get angry, girl, an' then make that anger _power_. 'Oo are yeh angry at?"

"Myself," she said.

"No. Never yerself. Yer friends. _Him_. T'prince, if yeh have to. Anger is heat, an' heat is life."

"He called me the king's whore," Aravis murmured, remembering how she had wanted to screech when she heard that_. I may have a weakness for whores in the street, but I simply cannot abide the thought of taking one as a wife._

Elonn looked at her for a moment. "And are you?"

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no!_ Aravis shook her head silently.

"And how do yeh expect people t'believe otherwise if yeh do not raise your voice in yer own defense?"

"I am no whore," she whispered.

"But Aravis—"

"_I am no whore_!"

The rage came out of nowhere, but it rippled through Aravis like a tangible thing all the same, and she pushed away from Elonn, feeling her sword in her hand, the rough leather rubbing against her palm, for what seemed like the first time. Elonn stared at her. "I am not what he tried to make me," she said, her raised voice echoing back at her from the surrounding tents.

"Yes," Elonn murmured. "Yeh are not t'king's whore."

"I am not a whore at all!" Aravis retorted. The weight of her claymore felt good in her fist. "I am the king's _woman_!"

"How t'kitten hisses," Senjen said from behind her, still spinning his sword with a stupid grin. "But can it scratch?"

_I am no kitten, either_. The lion's head pommel was cold in her hand as she wrapped her left hand below her right and turned to face Senjen. The scarred man smiled and lifted his blade to tap hers teasingly. The brazen touch made her think of the way Khurshid had pulled her hair, how he had gripped her face, and then, absurdly, of the way the Lion's claws felt as they dug into the tender flesh of her back so many years ago.

She leapt at Senjen, snarling.

Afterwards, he chuckled as Mabe bound the gash on his arm. "T'cat has sharp claws," he admitted.

Aravis wiped away the sweat that trickled down her temples with the sleeve of her green tunic. "Maybe the old tom isn't quick enough anymore."

Senjen laughed at that. "Migh' be true, that. I like a lass wi' a shrewd tongue. A shrewd tongue's a mark of a shrewd wit, me mam used ter tell me. I reckon I could make use of you. If'n you wanted ter stay wi' the Stag's Sons, o' course."

"Could I?" Aravis asked breathlessly, her anger forgotten for a moment in the midst of relief and exhilaration.

"Yeh'd have ter give up bein' called _your ladyship_," he answered. "Ha'n't got time for that."

"Very well."

"An' ye'll _work_ for yer meals. Two a day, if yeh do the tasks set before yeh."

"As it should be."

Senjen nodded. "Righ'. Elonn?"

Elonn took Aravis by the elbow and looked up at her with a keen look on her thin face. "If yeh want ter make a life here, girl, yeh've got work t'do."

And so it was that Aravis, with a twisted sense of amusement, handed all her earthly belongings over to the Stag's Sons. Her gowns were given to the tailors and seamstresses, who would cut and dye and restitch them so as to clothe the masses; her food, such as it was, went to the cooks; even _In Pursuit of the Crested Cormorant_ went to the scholar, an old, reedy-looking man who had been turned out of a Finnian household (he would not say which one) for telling the master's children that all the rulers of the civilized world, even High King Peter himself, had endorsed Lune as rightful king.

All that remained to her afterwards were her empty satchels, her tent, her cloak and gloves, her claymore, and Inga. For once she was grateful to see the nag: someone had brushed the caked mud from her coat and given her bridle and saddle a brief polish.

"Not dead, then?" Inga muttered as Aravis smoothed her forelock.

"Not yet," Aravis replied, watching the mare's big grey ears flick back and forth against her tickling fingers.

When everything had been properly distributed and her tent moved from the center of Justice to the east side, Senjen sent a small, snot-nosed boy to summon her back to the clearing. Now that the morning's judicial proceedings had finished, the spot was set up like an armorer's yard, straw soldiers in faded red scraps bristling with rough-hewn arrows and loud _clunks_ coming from a pair of fat swordsmen who were striking clumsily at each other with wooden swords.

"Try _not_ to let Garlen hit yeh," Senjen was shouting when she stepped out of the tents onto the hard-packed dirt. "No, I said _not_ to—Lion be _good_." He eyed her as she approached, leaning back on the barrel he was perched on. "Yeh ever seen men this green, love?"

"The crown prince," she answered honestly. "When we were younger."

Senjen laughed out loud at that. "Poor lad prob'ly never held anything but nets an' fish spears afore settin' foot in Archenland," he said with amusement. "Garlen an' Smyth 'ere, though, seem ter think they're regular squires."

"So you believe me now, my liege?"

He gave her a strange look. "'As the palace cat taken leave o' her senses?"

"You told me that if I was a ward of the king, you were the king of Galma."

Senjen hooted with amusement and nearly fell off his barrel. "So I did! I did. Seems that yeh've caught me in a falsehood, my lady."

"Aravis. Remember?"

"Naught but Aravis."

_Naught but Aravis_. "But how did you come to know your way around steel?" she asked him, changing tack.

"Shepherds must fight more 'n bears, up in t' mountain pastures," he answered blithely.

Aravis thought painfully of Hana. "Sheep don't teach swordsmanship."

"No," Senjen answered, laughing, "but men do." When he saw her frustrated expression, he reached over and picked up a heavy oak-and-iron shield, scarred and worn from years of use. "My father were a by-blow of a lordling from the northern reach. 'E grew up in t'shadow of the lordling's castle, an' 'e would watch the lordling's true sons practice arms in t'yard." He put the shield in her hands and slung a longbow at her.

The weight of the shield startled her, and she nearly dropped it on her toes as she reached up to snatch the longbow from the air. "What am I to do with these?" she said, bewildered.

Senjen shoved a fistful of duck-feather arrows into a beaten leather quiver and tossed that to her as well. "I've 'alf a mind to put yeh in the van," he said, raising an eyebrow as she fumbled the catch and spilled the arrows. "Yeh've got keen eyes, a sturdy mount…"

She flushed and began to pick up the fallen arrows, clutching the shield and longbow with her other hand. "The van?"

"T'vanguard."

"I know what a van _is_. What I want to know is why you intend to _have_ one."

"Justice is on t'move," he answered. "T'land can't sustain our lot—'sides, stay in one place too long and soon we'll 'ave _unsavory_ types sniffing 'round."

"And the van…"

"T'van goes ahead o' the main strength, see. _Ranging_, the westrons call it. Look ou' for unsavory types, villages, 'n such."

"Why villages?"

"Got to feed this lot some'ow."

Aravis frowned at his careless tone. "You steal from villages?"

"_Commandeer_. Nothin' less 'n His Majesty's army'd do in times o' war."

"You're not His Majesty's army, though."

"No. So the van roots ou' Finnian strongholds 'n sympathizers. That's 'ow we found Scholar Frogg."

_Bandits_ was the word that came to Aravis's mind. A pang of doubt shot through her belly. _Was I declared innocent by a band of brigands? _

"Yeh frown something fierce," Senjen said warily.

"The Stag's Sons raid unsuspecting villages, putting families out of their homes, because their masters and mayors and lords support Finn Bogton?" she answered. The weight of the oak-and-iron shield was making her shoulder ache.

"Hold on, now," he said quickly. "I ne'er said _insuspectin'_, did I? No. T'Sons _al'ays_ give fair warnin' afore a raid, givin' the commonfolk plenty of time ter leave, ter take up arms, or ter join us. 'S how most of the Sons came ter be, yeh know. They joined us."

Aravis watched the scarred man carefully. She didn't completely trust him or Elonn yet, but his words made sense: if the Stag's Sons were to be any sort of threat to the Finnii, they must play the same game, mustn't they? "Do you kill commonfolk?" she asked quietly.

"Only when they try ter kill me first," he answered stubbornly.

"Is that very often?"

Senjen raised his sword and gave an uneven grin, the red scars across his craggy face making him look wicked. "No," he said. "Not often a'tall."

_The best way to find out would be to go along_, she reasoned. She took a deep breath and hoisted the oak-and-iron higher on her shoulder. "This shield is too heavy."

"Yeh'll learn ter lift it."

"It's breaking open my whip la—"

"Yer a soft palace kitten. I'll make yeh a torn-eared tom by a for'night, mark me."

Annoyance flared in her gut. "I'm not soft," she snapped. "And I'm not a kitten, either. I've killed a man, remember?"

Senjen feigned astonishment. "_Ay, me_! I've killed two score of 'em, kitten. An' I show more self-control than most o' the men yeh'll meet, mark me."

"I mark you," she said darkly.

"Righ', then. Show me 'ow yeh'd shoot a man."

Aravis scowled at him and turned to drop the shield on the ground.

"No," he scolded, "shield on yer back, like it's meant ter be."

_You'll be next,_ she wanted to say, but she held her tongue and shouldered the heavy shield. The weight crushed the scabs forming on her back, and she could feel an odd gaping sensation as they split open again. Over the other shoulder, she slung the rattling quiver and adjusted the straps so they crossed between her breasts, then stalked over to where the straw Finnii stood like so many pincushions. Absurdly, she remembered how Lord Rhys had shot Corin through the shoulder so many ages ago, thinking he was a bear come to savage the camp; to suppress a mad bark of laughter, she seized an arrow, fitted it to the bow, and fired at one of the straw men like Ongli had taught her. The arrow sank an inch, shuddering, into the straw man's thigh.

"Yeh've hamstrung 'im," Senjen said, coming up behind her, "but yeh shoot like a hunter."

"Why is that bad?" she asked indignantly.

"Yeh have to shoot like a _man killer_."

_I'm not a man killer,_ she wanted to say. The words crowded to the front of her mouth, but she had to swallow them bitterly. "I was taught by—"

"A righ' hon'rable man, to be sure," Senjen interrupted. "But too pretty. Not near 'nough power. Grasp the string with three fingers, not two. Lower yer elbow. An' don't take so long ter aim, or yer arm tightens up an' don't release properly."

"_Doesn't_," she told him.

"That's righ'."

She rolled her eyes at him—_just like Corin_—and did as she was told. The arrow did not fly as accurately as she had wanted, but it buried itself in the straw man's gut up to the fletching.

"Better," Senjen said approvingly. "Yeh'll be good once t'blisters heal."

"Blisters—?"

Senjen grinned.


	69. Chapter Sixty-Nine

_A/N: I liiiiiiiive! On another continent, that is! Thanks for your patience, everyone in this time of transition as I adjust to living in Europe for a semester (see our Facebook page for more details). I have felt __your appreciation and concern about the delay without feeling pressured—so thank you, from the bottom of my heart! Enjoy the new chapter! _Üdvözlet Magyarországról! ~SH

_Chapter Sixty-Nine_

Aravis spent nearly every waking minute drilling in the dust with Senjen and other Sons until the days faded together into one long period of _hard work_. By the end of the first day, her fingers were bleeding from the blisters she had gained working endlessly with the longbow—shooting and aiming and drawing and even learning how to restring a sprung line. Her arms and legs ached from the weight of her claymore and the heavy shield, too, but it was the strength of the blows she sustained from other practicing swordsmen that gave her the greatest pain. She was quick and hardy and determined, to be sure, but she didn't have any of the brute strength that the men did. Her blisters burst and healed and burst again, and she had so many bruises and cuts now that she was beginning to forget which ones had been gifts from Khurshid. When it was cold or otherwise too unpleasant to work outside, Scholar Frogg would set her to copying letters and records until her blistered fingers were stained with ink, too.

At night, she would trudge back to her tent, feed and water Inga, and eat her dinner in her tent after fetching it from the fire nearby. The Sons were a boisterous, happy people, but the crowd of friendly strangers around each fire unnerved her, so she listened to their stories and their music from the solitude of her own tent. She always fell asleep quickly, but rest came hard; her dreams were full of faceless terrors. It was usually the same ones: a sudden rush of fear as something grabbed her from behind, a faceless specter ripping out her throat with its hands, her father pulling her down under frothing waves of hot red blood. Once, she dreamt that it was Cor who shoved her facedown on the mattress and tried to take her by force, and he wept tears of blood as she slid her sword through his neck. She woke screaming from that one and could only be comforted by Mabe with a cup of hot wine and chamomile oil.

And so February wore on towards wet, windy March. One day, several weeks after she had come to Justice, there was a wedding. The couple was young and lowborn, and they blushed like maids as the other Sons showered them with gifts and well wishes and ribald jokes. There was loud music and lots of thick brown ale, but Aravis couldn't hear or taste any of it; the bridegroom was handsome, blue-eyed and golden-haired.

Senjen called her to the yard after the ceremonies were finished, and she was grateful to spend the afternoon slinging small knives at a block of wood rather than think. More often than not, her blades went skidding in the dirt or bounced harmlessly off the knotty pine, but even that was better than listening to the sounds of people urging the newlyweds to kiss, and every so often one of the blades would land point down, quivering, in the scarred block.

All too early, though, when it was so dark she could hardly see where to throw, Senjen let her go, and she went back to her tent, ducking crowds of people drinking frothy ale and singing impish songs.

"Come now, Aravis," one of the revelers called after her. She noticed his flame-red hair and vaguely recognized him as a thick-necked ploughboy Senjen pitted her against sometimes. "Have a drink!"

"I'm not thirsty," she replied.

"So don't have a drink. Come and join us anyway—we're in need of another voice!"

"I don't know your songs very well."

"You don't need to know the words," he said, touching his chest in an exaggerated gesture of heartbreak. "A memory of mead, a handsome lad, and a stolen kiss is all!"

Aravis remembered the taste of sweet wine and the way the _pop-pop_ping sound of the fireworks had made her heart pound. "I'm tired," she said, shaking her head. The redheaded man shrugged and lifted a cup to her as she turned away.

Her tent was dark and cold. She lit a candle and knotted the canvas flaps shut before taking off her top layer of furs and green wool and crawling into her musty old bearskin. It had been Cor's once, but somehow it had made its way into her things, and as he had never asked for it back, it was hers by right. She drew it up around her mouth and nose and breathed deeply of the fur. It smelled like her now, too, as she supposed it must.

_N__o matter what happens—good or bad—we'll take care of each other. Like we've always done_.

Aravis shifted uncomfortably against the hard ground, her shoulders still stiff and sore from the whip wounds. _Even Cor lies,_ she thought sadly. _He wasn't there to stop them from beating Lorin. He didn't trust Khurshid, and yet he left me without even saying goodbye._

Bitterness filled her gut. They had had this argument a thousand times over, it seemed; every time she batted her eyes at a clever courtier or attractive horseman, he took it as a wholesale rejection of him. Even as a boy, he had never been good at gauging if she and Corin merely preferred someone else's company of an afternoon or if they really were upset with him. Every closed door, every dismissive shrug, every decision to go elsewhere turned his world upside down. She knew it was because of Arsheesh. Before Cor came to Anvard, no one had ever wanted him around, much less _loved_ him, and it had been so hard for him for so long to learn the difference between desire and duty. It was much better now—you wouldn't even know, to look at the way he interacted with others—but the lines were still blurred to him, imprecise at best.

_He will have taken this hard_, she thought miserably. She had picked a bridegroom from the southeast, as far from Anvard as she could get; Khurshid was eloquent, charming, and Calormene—everything Cor was not.

The musicians outside her tent were playing a low, sad song, the tune without a name that Cor had hummed once. She remembered how it had slipped from her lips that night, brought forth by the feel of his soft hair between her fingers and the way he clung to her legs as he shivered away the effects of his nightmares. Was he having them again? Did he start awake every night and find sweat cooling on his brow, like she did?

_Does he wish I was there? _

She shoved the heels of her aching hands into her eyes and scrubbed. Outside, the musicians launched into a discordant but energetic version of 'Once There Was a Maiden,' and a chorus of drunken voices took up the refrain.

"_Once there was a maiden fair, once, ONCE! Once there was a maiden fair, buds and birds up in her hair! I took the maiden on my lap and gave her arse a hearty slap! Once there was a maiden fair, once, once, ONCE!"_

Suddenly, she heard a woman shriek. Aravis was on her knees with her claymore in hand when she heard it again and then again, rising in harmony with the lower tones of a man's grunting. Her cheeks flamed with mortification even in the darkness of her tent; the newlyweds were consummating their union the next tent over, making no attempt to muffle the sounds of their coupling. The woman gasped out a name and the singers outside roared with laughter.

"_Once there was a maiden fair, once, ONCE! Once there was a maiden fair, I plied my palm to'er bosom bare! She sighed and squealed and cried for me, I tore and pulled 'till naked she! Once there was a maiden fair, once, once, ONCE!"_

Aravis shut her eyes and covered her ears with her hands, but still she heard the woman raggedly urging her new husband on, much to the amusement of the revelers outside, who took it upon themselves to shout encouragement and further suggestions. _She's enjoying it_, she thought absurdly. _I thought only whores enjoyed it._ Even as the thought crossed her mind, though, she knew it was false—she remembered Cor's rough, warm hands gripping her tightly just under her ribs, his thumbs slipped up under the bodice of her _ma'vahda vidyi_—she remembered how snug she had been, wrapped up around him and pressed hard against his chest.

_"Once there was a maiden fair, once, ONCE! Once there was a maiden fair, I bent my hand and stroked her there! The maid she took me in her bed and gave to me her maidenhead! Once there was a maiden fair, once, once, ONCE!_"

_You must get angry, girl, and then make that anger _power_. Who are you angry at?_

_No one._

_You have to get angry, girl!_

Aravis buried her face in her furs. Anyone. She could be angry with anyone but herself.

_Fine, then_, she thought bitterly. _I'm angry. _Angry at the singers outside. Angry at the couple for taking their pleasure without a care for their neighbors. Angry at Inga for pulling her out of the water.

_He left_ _me._

Fury filled her gut so quickly that she realized it had been there all along. Cor had left her in Zohra, not even having the courage to give her a proper farewell, something that would have bolstered her resolve and eased the transition a little. No—like a thief in the night, he had stolen away, taking with him all her friends. Only Ram had thought enough to leave her with any encouragement. _We did not leave you friendless_.

The woman the next tent over gave a tremulous wail ending in her lover's name. Aravis flushed again. _I kissed Cor. I grabbed his shirt and _kissed_ him. I pushed him against a barrel and kissed him like I wanted him_. His mouth had been wet and warm and it tasted of sweet wine. What he lacked in skill he had more than made up for with enthusiasm; when she had felt his tongue caressing her lower lip, she had eagerly opened up to it and trembled as he deepened the kiss, his rough hands roving across her bare midriff—

_It all turned my stomach_, she told herself resolutely, digging her fingers into the cold ground to reinforce the idea. The rage in her belly was quickly giving way to a different kind of heat, but with an effort she was able to bring it back. It warmed her from the inside. _He wronged me, and I shan't forget it. The kiss…that was a mistake, an act of desperation fueled by wine. He should not have let me do it. He should not have reciprocated._

The lovers next door had finished, but Aravis could still hear them kissing and giggling to each other. She scowled into the darkness of her tent, rolled over, and forced herself to go to sleep.

It was a restless night, punctuated by dreadful dreams and moments of terror in which she woke with her hand on the hilt of her claymore, startled from sleep by a burst of loud singing or a gale of laughter from elsewhere in the camp. Towards morning, she dreamt that she was a peasant girl and Cor a shepherd, and in that dream she kissed him and took him vigorously under a tree in a field of waving quailgrass. She woke shuddering in the throes of a sort of pleasure, a queer heat throbbing all through her legs and belly that made her blush with anger and shame. The newlyweds in the next tent were at each other again, and she guessed that it had been their gasps and cries that had woken her. Rather than sit through another of their sessions, then, Aravis glanced out of her tent, saw that it was nearly daylight, and dressed quickly.

Senjen was already at the yard when she arrived there, trading choreographed blows with a young boy who was yawning his way through the exercise. "The torn-eared tom slinks in early," he observed when he noticed her settling down on a barrel to wait for him.

"My blade begs for blood." _And my mind needs distracting._

"Yer arms beg for bruises, rather," Senjen retorted. He stepped back from the boy and dismissed him, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "Though I don't doubt yer blade longs for t'taste o' a man's blood—it's been far too long since yeh've gotten close enough ter give it some."

She flushed with indignation. "Then teach me better!"

"Tha' time is done," Senjen answered. "Now yeh'll learn from t'best teacher there is."

"Who is that?" Aravis asked, thinking illogically of Lord Darrin.

"Experience."

She blinked at him.

"Go get tha' hell-beast yeh ride saddled up an' see Chesta abou' food 'n some new greens. The van is settin' out as soon as the sun rises. Give me yer blade an' quiver an' I'll see tha' they're sharp an' sturdy."

She obeyed reflexively and set off at a run from the yard; a salt-haired man dropped a bushel of winter wheat and cursed at her as she stumbled past him, but it was easier for her to keep going, the wind whipping at her tangled hair and blowing her steaming breath back into her face. The shield bumped against her back. _The van._ _The van!_ The day had taken so long to arrive that she had feared it wouldn't come at all.

Chesta handed her a bundle of clean, mended woolen greens along with a packet of salt pork and hard, stale biscuits when she skidded to a halt in front of the woman's storage tent. "Best of luck to you, sweetling," the doughy old woman said, giving Aravis a gap-toothed grin. "Imagine—a girl ranger!"

Aravis forced a thin smile in response. The other rangers, she knew, were seasoned men and one or two thin, hard women, depending on who had agreed to come. Senjen had spoken indifferently of a few other new hands like her, but he hadn't mentioned any names and she probably didn't know them anyway. Sudden unease gripped her stomach.

Inga was pawing the icy ground for forage when Aravis came to the horse lines with her tent rolled up under her arm and the bearskin wrapped tightly around her shoulders over her cloak. "It's today," she said briefly, and Inga came right to the gate.

"You have to be on your guard," she whispered as she poured oats onto the ground for the horse to eat while she heaved the saddle onto her back and loaded the saddlebags.

Inga rolled her eyes. "When have I—"

"_Ssh_." Aravis pulled the girth tight, ignoring Inga's pointed groan. "You have to help me range. I know next to nothing."

"You know nothing at all," Inga retorted irritably, nipping at Aravis's fingers as she slipped the bit in between her teeth.

Aravis jerked her hand back instinctively and snorted at the look on Inga's long face. "Come on, then. Senjen's waiting."

Senjen was not the only one waiting. When she and Inga came to the yard, he tossed her a quiver full of fresh new arrows and handed back her claymore, its edges gleaming fatally in the pale light of morning. His companions and their shaggy mountain horses stirred groggily at the sound of her blade slipping back into its sheath: there was Manden, a weather-beaten and narrow-eyed man of an age with Senjen, Elonn with her inked face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, the drinker who had hailed Aravis the night before, Lognar, who stood looking at his feet, and Gendrie. The woman was swathed in a green cloak that muffled her up to her nose—if it hadn't been for her flinty grey eyes, Aravis might not have recognized her.

"_You're_ coming?" she blurted out.

Gendrie glanced at her. "Yes, and so are you."

Aravis flushed. It was not that she disliked Gendrie—though she found the older girl's brusqueness a bit impertinent, it was easy to see in her carriage and hear in her speech that she was no commoner. Try as she might, Aravis had been unable to wheedle anything out of her other than the fact that she was from the midwestern region of the kingdom, but the woman's highborn accent was easy on Aravis's ears.

Elonn put a stop to what little chatter there was with a wave of her hand. At the signal, Senjen and Manden swung up into the saddle; the redheaded lad from the night before struggled to mount up, and Aravis seized the back of his cloak and hauled him up. "Fanks, Aravis," he said, giving her a wolfish grin as Manden laughed at him.

Aravis squinted at him, trying to remember his name before replying, "Best learn to do that quicker."

"Teach me," he answered with the same grin still on his mouth.

Aravis looked at his broad, simple face with its stiff russet beard and then at his red hair and nudged Inga away. _Whatever his name is_.

Justice was silent and still as the seven of them pointed their horses west and rode out from among the low, mud-stained tents. The sun was rising steadily, but its rays had not yet crested the tops of the forest when Aravis and Inga slipped back into it, riding abreast with Manden and his heavy brown draft. The icy branches closed up over their heads. It was just as quiet and dead in the wood as Aravis remembered; she shifted uneasily in the saddle, thinking of Inga's ominous observation, and Inga flicked her ears in response.

They rode all day in silence. There was not much to scout or range, this close to Justice; near nightfall, they encountered a village long abandoned, the charred roofs of the modest little cottages falling in, and they made camp in the shadow of a collapsing stone wall.

"What happened to the village?" Aravis asked Elonn around a swallow of thin yellow ale.

"T'folk couldn't withstand another raid," she answered.

"Finnii?"

"Aye," said Manden. "An' thieves, an' outlaws, an' large lizards with flaming breath."

Aravis froze, and Senjen laughed at the expression on her face. "If yeh believe the reports," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"T' folk said that three long lizard-like creatures swarmed their village after nightfall an' burnt it ter a crisp." Senjen prodded the air with a shriveled brown sausage. "If you ask me, summat' had too much ter drink before bed…"

Aravis felt flushed and ill, and she set aside her skin of ale. How long had it been since Woodbarrow? It had been a village just like this one—small and insignificant and destroyed in one night. At least there had been survivors this time. _Nim_. "Dragons," she said aloud. "Not lizards. They're called dragons."

The other six stirred uncomfortably. Senjen made a face as though his bite of sausage had gone off. "First Men 'ave been dead a long time," he said. "Their pets with 'em."

"Not in the far north," Aravis said.

"We're not in the far north."

"It matters little now," she answered, feeling feverish. She had not read the Old Lore, that massive tome given her by the former queen of Narnia, since summer, but it was as if her brain had been mulling over it the whole time. "The Four have been gone from Narnia for nigh on five years, and the Great Lion has not been seen since. Clearly, whatever magic kept the Old Ones at bay went with them. The long winter is creeping back. The Ettins of Ettinsmoor have ceased paying fealty to the regent of Narnia and are moving south. Sorcery stirs in the mountains. The dragons wake, too."

"Aye?" Senjen drawled, spitting derisively. "The Lion's abandoned the North, that much is plainer than t'nose on my face, but dragons—"

"Aye," she retorted. "I've seen them, I have."

Senjen cocked an eyebrow at her. "An' lived ter tell the tale, I see—"

Elonn cuffed him with the flat of her sword, cutting his rejoinder short. "Let the lass speak, Senjen, 'less you want ter find yerself short a tongue."

Senjen lapsed into irritable silence. Aravis was painfully aware of how keenly the other five were looking at her, hardly daring to breathe, but she kept her gaze on Elonn's inked face, pale but composed beneath the folds of her hood. "Go on," she said calmly.

Aravis took a breath. _Nim_. "It was in the autumn," she said. "The crown prince and I were in the east, skirting near the coast and keeping the high crags between us and the sea. We came upon a small village burned and abandoned just like this one on the side of a wooded bluff. The survivors told us that the forest was unsafe, that the beasts lived in the depths of it, but we had no choice but to proceed through it, just like we are now. We heard them calling to each other before they attacked—they sounded like wolf women, keening in the distance. They really did look like large lizards, though. Black as pitch, twice the size of a hack pony and talons like small daggers." She remembered the sound of the smallest one tearing at the old grey-nosed mule; Findora's sister's screams still echoed in her ears. Somehow, though, the memories were made more bearable by giving voice to them. "They kill by mauling. We found Lord Nim ripped open from throat to groin, his belly hanging open like a smoked ham."

Senjen's mouth hung ajar and he held a hunk of sausage frozen midway to his mouth. The others wore similar expressions, Aravis saw when she got up the courage to look at them.

Lognar was the first to speak. His voice was ragged and rough, as though he did not use it often, and it seemed to pain him when he did. "And my sister, she is—"

"Ragna was healthy and hale when they left from Castle Zohra a month ago," Aravis answered bracingly. "But I haven't had word from C—from the prince since then, and I do not know where they are or how they have fared."

He nodded briefly. Before he turned back to his own meal, though, Aravis saw his eyes well up with tears.

Senjen threw what was left of his sausage into the fire. "That was in t'east, though," he said uneasily. "Righ'?"

"Yes," Aravis admitted. _But the forest feels the same way, doesn't it? Breathless and dead_. "All the same, we must needs be on our guard. It might be that the villagers had too much to drink, yes, but then it might easily be the case that there are more dragons than the ones I saw in the east."

"My mam used to say thieves and sorrows travel in threes," said the red-haired ploughboy. "'Spose that would apply to dragons, too?"

"Shut up, Drip," Gendrie said, speaking for the first time.

_Drip. That's it. A dull name for a dull man._ "It would be best to stay alert."

"All's well an' good, like," said Elonn, "but 'ow do we _fight_ 'em?"

Aravis was forced to shrug. "I've never seen it done. A book I read once said that the inner throat is a dragon's most vulnerable spot, but it seems to be that you would most certainly be burned to ash in the process of stabbing one there."

Senjen snorted and choked on his mouthful of ale. "The _throat_—"

"They really breathe flame?" Gendrie said, frowning. "I thought that was a tale told to frighten children."

_Acrid smoke, the smell of charred flesh_. "As I said," Aravis answered, trying to ignore the smell of the sausage scorching on the edge of their campfire, "I've never seen one do it. The ones we encountered in the east were juvenile, and they fought with their claws and teeth, which makes me wonder if they could breathe fire at all. The town we came across, though, had been burned to the ground."

"Couldn't that have been the work of a smashed oven or something during the town's destruction?" Gendrie asked. "My mother used to tell me the tale of a great warrior of the First Men who would tie foxes together, set their tails afire, and set them running through the enemy's villages of a night. Thatch and daub go up easily."

"It could have been," Aravis had to admit. _Findora said they spat fire. But she was distraught—it could have been a torch falling onto a pile of straw, or a chimney collapsing in on itself_.

Elonn cleared her throat. "T'way I see it, we'd best keep on our guard from now on. Ar'vis, love, if'n there were dragons nearby now, they'd 'ave set on Justice weeks ago, eh?"

Aravis nodded, swallowing. _You haven't seen them, though. You don't know what the keening sounds like, coming ever closer through the trees._

"There. It's settled. Yeh've warned us now, love, an' we'll do our due vig'lance."

She nodded again and corked her skin of ale. The woods were too quiet—no small creatures stirring as the thaws came, no birds calling to each other overhead. It would not do to dull her senses now.

"My mam used to say tha' the Lion never abandons the North," Drip said apprehensively.

Senjen snorted again. "Bloody lie, that."

Elonn shot him a sharp glance as Drip flushed. "Hold yer tongue, Senjen."

"Why? It _is _a bloody lie. We was all born into the Great Winter, wasn't we? We remember what it's like ter be _cold_, all the time, an' hungry, eatin' acorn paste and brook trout for every meal. Tha's wha' we sons an' daughters taste when t' _great Lion_ gets bored." He stole a glance at Aravis. "'Cept for you, sand cat."

"We felt the Great Winter in the south, as well," she replied. "I didn't taste bread until my eighth name day—our fields can't feed grain, so we rely on the north and the west for wheat and barley and oats and potatoes, and the eastern isles for oranges and grapes and such. My elder brother's tooth fell out at dinner once, and my mother cried because his gums were rotting back and we had no limes to help it." She had forgotten that day. She had forgotten Ardeshir's voice a long time ago, and now his face was blurred in her memory, too. He had died too long ago. "Even now, I find Calormene summers oppressive—I grew up when our winters were only as warm as your autumns, and now they are like your summers."

"What did your people blame it on?" Gendrie asked. "If you knew naught of the Aslan and the Old Magic."

"We had our own gods," Aravis said, blushing, "but we still blamed it on the barbarians and their golden god. When the golden barbarian god left, so did the sun, my father used to say." _Used to_.

"Barbarians?" Drip said indignantly. "At least _we_ don't keep slaves!"

Aravis closed her eyes. She had held this conversation with a dozen, a hundred, a thousand others; Corin had been the first, but in her first year at Anvard, a series of lordlings come to pay homage to King Lune had thought it amusing to bully a maiden half their size and a third their age into tearfully confessing that it was the Calormenes who were the real barbarians. When she turned twelve and had her month's blood for the first time, the next lord to challenge her thus found himself sitting in the fountain at the foot of the great gardens at Anvard, the stone hero Olvin pouring water on his head from a weathered bronze jar. Once Lune gave her the stag's head longsword and let her sit on in on his common council meetings, though, the challenges stopped, and Aravis liked to think it was because she sat behind Lune in the council room, polishing her longsword as he heard his lordlings' petitions and queries. "I cannot speak for my countrymen," she said aloud, "but you all know I am the king's woman, just like you. He raised and loved me better than my blood father did."

"But even King Lune can't bring t' Lion back," said Manden, leaning his chin on the pommel of his sword. "That's all what can heal us now."

"King Lune is good," Elonn started.

"He's good," Senjen interrupted, "but 'e's getting old, innee? An' word has it that 'is councilors do most of t'rulin' now, so's our petitions aren't even reachin' the royal study. They vet all that aren't important-lookin', I'd wager. Dragons 'n rebels 'n old magic? Hardly fit for an old-bones king."

"Petitions?" Aravis asked.

Senjen leaned on his knees. "Yeh don't think we—how'd yeh put it—_raid unsuspecting villages_ without actually telling t'crown what we're doin' an' why we're doin' it, do yeh?"

She had nothing to say to this, and he snorted a little, sitting back. "No, wee tom, Scholar Frogg writes letters ter t'king, ter his lords, ter anyone who'll listen. Sometimes lordlings hear—Sir Jamin o' the Rockwell gave us all t'is good steel, see? But most often, they wait fer word from t'king, and t'king says nothing."

_He said naught of this in any of his letters_, thought Aravis, perturbed. But then, Lune's letters had been long and chatty, giving good advice and cheerily dispensing bits of palace gossip but containing little of international import and certainly never mentioning the day-to-day business of ruling a kingdom. She had assumed it was in case the letters were intercepted, but suddenly there was a worm of doubt in her belly. _Our letters from Zohra should have reached Anvard by now_, she mused. _We all wrote of the dragons. Even now, Lune should be marching a force south to augment the larger keeps and strongholds—at the very least, a small garrison to investigate our claims._ She chewed on her lip until it stung. _But why would he need to investigate at all, if he hears it from me and from Cor and from Corin? _

Manden was reminiscing at length of the days when Lune was a young king, but all Aravis could think of was Lord Dar. _Why didn't I tell him? Why didn't I ask if he had seen anything in the east or heard talk among the lords there? I should have sent him scurrying north to the capital the minute he showed his face in Zohra, to lay the news at Lune's feet in person_.

_Unless Lune sent him to us. But then why didn't he say anything? All he did was drink with Khurshid at night and sleep all day. He is probably still in the castle, drinking himself red in the face._

_Or looking for me_.

The thought made her feel dizzy. Dar had watched her being flogged in the courtyard, her blood dripping onto the icy flagstones, but had held his tongue. That in itself she could forgive in time—to do otherwise, even as a higher-ranking lord, would be impolite and might spark enmity between their houses. But he had stepped aside when Khurshid ordered her upstairs, remaining silent even as she staggered past him. He would know immediately what she had done. He knew her too well—a few hours of silence from Khurshid and he would come straight to her chambers to start his search. He knew Khurshid, too, and still had not come to her aid.

_No,_ she realized immediately. _I should not have trusted him. I know his reputation. I should have known better. He will not look kindly on me if we should meet again. And I will not look kindly on him._

"Righ'," said Senjen, breaking her concentration. "Who wants t'first watch? Dragons and ogres and harpies want to make a hero of yeh…"

No one volunteered, so he unsheathed his sword and laid it naked across his knee to polish. "I'll go first, then," he grunted. "An' yeh'll all be singin' my name in the taverns and byways wi'in a fortnight, mark me."

Elonn and Manden grumbled a response and laid out their bedrolls. Aravis curled up in her bearskin and tried to sleep, but all she could think about was fat old Lune seated in the big armchair near the fire in his study, humming to himself, thinking of grandchildren, and ruling his realm in blissful ignorance of the fact that the North was no longer Narnia's problem. _Oh Lune_, she thought miserably, her breath floating away above her into the inky black sky, _what have you done_?


End file.
